From The Night
by Tutor Veritatis
Summary: Courier Alex Hugh lost every memory before walking up. He holds questions, he will search for answers, some he never expected. Bethesda owns all right and trademarks to Fallout New Vegas, I am merely creating my own interpretation. Changed to M for violence, some language, and later sexual content.
1. That Which Is Sown

October 5, 2281

Mojave Wasteland, near town of Goodsprings

1655 hrs

Dry desert air wafted dust around his boots; the heat drying the already-dried up leather. Taking a swig from his canteen, the Courier continued forward. Always forward, but his destination was finally in sight.

Weeks of travel to this forsaken waste which the old world had civilized, barely, with asphalt roads, electric lights and power lines running hundreds of miles to distant power stations, rivers redirected into reservoirs created by human hands…and that eyesore of a crown jewel of the old world where men and women both threw away money on chance and indeterminable possibility.

Had the bombs done what they were intended to, New Vegas would have fallen long ago by the powerful explosions, or their subsequent fires, or torn down slowly by the elements following the damage of heat and shockwave. But no, it still stood, and it was the reason the Courier was walking this old path of transport, carrying a tiny package which held the potential to change the whole of this land, for better or worse.

But the package was not his true objective. He smiled at the thought of finishing his task and returning home, where he was important, where he belonged. Rather than continue along this melancholy path, the Courier took another, longer, drink from his canteen. It was a gift from long ago, and an ever useful one as it always held water, even when the nearest source was miles away.

The old technology of the simple container collected and condensed water, even the smallest amount in the driest air, into a near endless supply of fresh, clean water; and it was always the perfect temperature, never becoming warm by the sun or too cold so that it would be painful to drink. Securing the canteen back onto his hip, the Courier continued on toward the great spires in the distance.

The day was growing late; the sun nearly touching the peaks of the far western mountains, and the desert was growing cold. Removing his hat, he wiped the sweat of his brow upon the sleeve of the blue checked shirt he wore.

The whole outfit-pants, boots, checkered shirt and hat-felt completely foreign to his body; another thing he looked forward to back home, his own clothing-the well-made leather and fabric caressing his body as he moved and fought and killed all who stood in his way.

A quick glance at the map he carried showed a town within the next three or four miles. 'Rest there' he thought 'have a meal, resupply and continue on tomorrow'. Stowing the map back in the pouch of his pack, he added, 'maybe have some flesh tonight'. A twist of his mouth held any indication of his thoughts.

In a small dip of the land, all sides surrounded by rock hills and desert scrub, a slither of rock caught his attention. Though not stopping, the Courier listened onto the surrounding area. The rock, he knew, had not fallen due to natural forces. Setting a strong grip onto his beloved machete, it was an open though small warning to his pursuers. They chose to ignore it.

A sharp whistle called to him. From behind a rock came a man, older than himself, in a checkered suit with slicked hair. He had been told of people who lived in New Vegas: they all dressed in old world attire, attempting to bring to life a world far long dead. The man appeared smug, as though he held a secret the Courier had no idea of. The man's appearance did not halt the pace at which he walked however.

Within five feet of the man, the Courier stopped. "You're in my way" he said; that was not physically true, the man was to the side of the road, but those who hid among the rocks were intent upon stopping him. The man laughed, "Kid, you don't have a shred of a clue with what you got yourself in for." From nowhere a heavy weight struck the back of his head.

The Courier fell to his knees, the pack driving his body full onto the cracked asphalt. Unable to get his hands up before the fall, he landed full on his face. The impact drove away all consciousness.

* * *

><p>Benny watched as the kid approached along the ol' I-15. By his face alone, the kid could be around mid-twenties, well-built and tall. Despite the loose clothing, Benny could make out muscle beneath the fabric. 'Kid' could prob'ly pick me up one-handed and snap my neck with the other, no prob.' Benny thought.<p>

"You're in my way" the kid, Courier, said. His voice held an even tone; level without inflection or accent; it also held a dangerous tone beneath the simple statement. Despite the weapons the kid was already packing-an old 10mm pistol and one beast of a machete-Benny knew the kid was dangerous without them. He had confidence in his voice, earned through years of training and conditioning.

This kid scared the crap out of Benny, and when he was scared out came the fangs, or rock as he saw McMurphy hefting about to throw. A nervous laugh escaped from his mouth, without mirth, to shrug off the feeling of primal fear that gripped his guts. "Kid, you don't have a shred of a clue with what you got yourself in for." He said, watching the rock sail through the air and land square on the back of the kid's head.

Stumbling forward, the kid fell to his knees and the weight of the heavy pack drove him face-first into the dirt. Benny whistled for his cronies, McMurphy and Jessup. When they arrived, he gestured to the Courier. Even unconscious, Benny wasn't risking his own skin to search the kid for the thing he'd come for. The two Khans went to work, searching pockets and pouches on the kids' belt, throwing away anything they found that wasn't the chip or they didn't need.

They searched for five minutes before, finally pulling a small square paper package from a concealed pocket hidden within his pants. Tearing open the paper, Benny beheld his prize; the platinum shone in the descending sunlight, the red-and-black enamel checker design surrounding the Lucky 38 emblem, also of black and red.

Near reverently, Benny stowed the chip into the inner breast pocket of his jacket. This journey, all the blood and sweat spilled-especially the sweat, he was drenched head to toe in his own body's water-all for this little bit of metal whose potential would shift power into the hands of those who played their cards right and were on the winning side. Benny intended to be the dealer of those cards, controlling the fate of all those who gambled.

"You got your shiny poker chip, pay up" said McMurphy; he couldn't put a finger on it but the minute he saw the Courier, he had a bad feeling, as though he was in over his head. At getting a closer look at the man, McMurphy knew he was bad news. In addition to the two weapons he carried, Jessup had found a grenade launcher with HE rounds; a shotgun used by caravan guards with magnum 3/0 buckshot. The guy was a damn walking arsenal.

Benny looked down at the fallen Courier. Once McMurphy and Jessup had found the chip, they'd backed away from the fellow; even unconscious, what the guy represented was enough to make anyone smart enough to stay away. "He can't be allowed to tell his people about what happened, or the Mojave Express. The latter will bring lawyers and litigation and all sorts o' trouble. The others…" he didn't finish, didn't need to.

"Sooo…what then?" Jessup asked. Benny shook his head, 'these two must be the most brain-dead idiots in the Mojave. Turning, he scanned the hills for a good place to do the business. He spied a cemetery upon a hill about a mile away. Gesturing at the distant bone yard, Benny said "we bury 'em".

* * *

><p>Awareness returned in starts and stops to the Courier; at first he was aware of men talking, rifling his pockets, more talking, and then being hoisted between to muscled bodies, carrying him. Motion caused his vision to blur, and sudden jerks caused it to go black for a time. His head hurt terribly, but the sensation was distant and, for now, negligible.<p>

He was aware enough of the surroundings to feel rocks beneath his body, along his back. The two muscles were dragging him by the arms up a steep hill. Half a minute after the hill leveled off, he was dropped unceremoniously back to the ground. Thereon he blacked-out once more.

Dusk had come and gone when his eyes opened once more. Lying on his side, the right judging by the rocks digging in there, the Courier heard a shovel impact the ground and remove a clump of dirt. The heavy breathing of the shovel bearer suggested he's been at the task for some time. "Its deep enough" came a voice he recognized: the bastard in the checkered suit.

His eyes opened to see both wrists bound together with a length of cord, 'my clothes line' he recognized. Twisting to and fro, the Courier attempted to work free of the bonds but the line held. Trying the legs, those were also bound tight. "Well," checkered suit said; a ring of metal, a scrape of flint upon steel, and the air was soon filled with cigarette smoke "look whose finally awake to join the party".

The Courier looked up at his captors, two Great Khans and the man in the checkered suit. "Get 'em up" said the man, his two flunkies jumped at the order. Know the Courier was on his knees, hat lost and blown away in the wind by the Khans rough handling. His hair had grown since leaving home; when once close-cropped it was now thick, the dark walnut shade just beginning to tinge with silver, despite his twenty and seven years.

Now, all was done; so many things left undone, so much time never experienced. The Courier knew he would die here tonight, at the hand of this man…

"This don't feel right, we should just take the damn chip and go" said one of the Khans, a black man with a thick mustache. Checkered Suit sneered at the Khan, his cigarette lighting up at the intake of breath "maybe Khans leave their victims to die slow because they don't have the guts to look 'em in the eye, but that ain't me. I look a man in the face when I kill 'em"

Checkered Suit approached the Courier and knelt before him. "Sorry 'bout this kid, it ain't nothing personal, just business". Standing once again, the man pulled his package from an inner pocket "this thing your carryin' has the power to change the face of New Vegas and the Mojave forever, and I intend to be the one behind all of it".

Replacing the chip into the pocket, checkered suit pulled an engraved pistol from a concealed holster. The weapon, at least in the eyes of the Courier, was gaudy and ostentatious: mother-of-pearl grips with an image of a robed woman; ivy and flowers were cut into the metal body finished in bright silver. Beautiful to some, but the Courier saw the weapon as insulting.

A weapon had one purpose: a tool to decide the fate of another, therefore it should only be what it is meant to be, a tool. To make a tool beautiful is to detract from its purpose. The Courier said none of this, for it did nothing to alter the circumstances.

"You, kid, were just unlucky to be in the wrong place at the wrong time" Checkered Suit said, raising the pistol to the center of the Courier's forehead, a shot that would travel through his skull and sever the spine at its base, instantaneous death.

"But in all fairness, kid, the game was rigged from the start" the man said, pulling gently on the trigger of the pistol. Before the spring reached its peak, the Courier cleared his throat. The sound startled Checkered Suit and his cohorts, the hammer of the pistol did not fall. "May I say some last words before my death" he said.

Without waiting for Checkered Suit to respond, the Courier spoke "Ut sementem feceris ita metes". The words were unknown to the three men, but the tone was terrifying. It was not a tone of mortal men, but more of a dark specter of death, watching over the four people, waiting for his opportunity.

On reflex, checkered suit pulled the trigger on the ostentatious weapon, but the knee-jerk reaction sent the bullet wide…through the Courier's skull. Darkness took his vision before he fell to the ground.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note:<em>

_Hello again, Constant Readers, and welcome all newcomers._

_This is only my second FanFiction, but it will contain plot-a-plenty and many fine characters. Just as a notice, I will be altering certain characters to fit my fiction, not extremely from their game selves, but a slow progression which I think will make the story a fine piece._

_As a college student, I do not have a set time as to when I will be writing or updating, but it shall come._

_My policy for reviews is simple: well-structured critiques for improvement are welcome; support is also welcome, though not always necessary, I write for the excitement of writing. If you enjoy what I write, say so. If you are going to read this and disparage it for something you do not agree with on a personal level, go read another fiction. Any reviews I receive may get responses, others I may ignore. Questions I will answer without giving away the story._

_One final piece: a friend of mine, Dreadman 75, is creating a Fallout 3 fic with the Lone Wanderer and Amata Almadovar. He is a fine writer with a fine storyline, just as I have intended for this one. I encourage you to sample it._

_Until we meet again, my friends,_

_I bid you farewell,_

_Tutor Veritatis _


	2. Goodsprings, 1

October 20, 2281

Goodsprings Medical Office, home of Agustin Mitchell, Md.

0700 hrs

A thunderous, reverberating beating sounded, filling his hearing and drowning all senses besides. The sound was rhythmic and held a constant pattern: two beats, pause, two beats again. Other than the drumming, all sound was mute; all feeling an empty void. The sound was his own heart, but other than its motions of life, he felt nothing; no pain nor emotion, or sense of the world.

Light stung his eyes as he tried to open them, succeeding barely to open his lids a millimeter before closing them once more against the light. But it was enough to begin reestablishing his other senses. Sound returned slowly, smell following close behind. What first caught his attention was the creak of an old fan motor as it worked against two hundred years worth of wear. The second was a strong smell in the air, a pungent roasted smell both new and old. The new smell hung in the air, bringing his senses further to awareness; the older was seeped into the environment surrounding him.

Attempting again to open his eyes, all vision was blurred. A circular motion on the ceiling revealed the location of the fan; morning light filtered through windows covered in desert dust caked over time. Someone took his left arm and held two fingers at the wrist. The feel of another person touching him caused a reactionary jerk, a failed attempt at taking the hand back. "Whoa there, son; you're in good hands" at the sound of a voice, he turned, trying to see who it belonged to. Vision still blurred, the only detail to be made out was flesh and white hair.

But the voice was calm, with a smooth drawl, and he believed it. Attempting to relax, the rapid beating of his heart against the rib cage slowed progressively to a semi-normal rhythm. Once calmed, the blurred vision receded. Details of the room become apparent: two breathing tanks and a mask stood at the foot of the bed, various medical tools lay on a nearby table. Beside the bed, an elderly man sat at vigil over him, book in hand and a mug of something steaming on a bedside table.

The man had white hair, from the temples around the back of his head, an equally white mustache, and his faced had wrinkles and liver-spots; a thin figure, but fit and healthy. He stared at the old man, and the old man stared back. "Glad to see your finally awake, son; been in and out for over two weeks now", setting the book down, the old man pulled his chair closer to the bed. "I'm Doc Mitchell, by the way". Pulling a pencil from a shirt pocket, Mitchell positioned it an inch directly above his nose, "follow the pencil with your eyes".

Mitchell checked his eyes followed properly as he moved the pencil back and forth, followed by testing his periphery vision. Next came touching his thumbs to each finger, back and forth three times, each faster than the last. "Can you curl your toes for me?" he did, then rolled his ankle to show off a little. The doctor nodded, scribbling notes in an old journal. "Good 'nough; stay right there, I'll get ya something you might keep on your stomach", the doctor turned to leave, but he felt a rush of irritation at being bedridden. He sat up and swung his legs over the bed; far too fast.

Vision swam in a cloud of disorientation, clouded over; he felt as though his intestines were squirming within. He would have retched, but nothing came out except a dry heaving. "Hey now, you shouldn't try getting up," Mitchell chastised as he returned to the bed. Laying his hand on the young man, he gripped the forearm and looked into the doctors' face. Concern was etched into the old face; he laughed derisively, "young people, always trying to speed things along" Sitting back down, the doctor looked him square in the eye.

"Son" he said as though speaking to someone he cared for deeply "you've been through a hell of a lot recently, and you need to take it slow to let your body recover. Put yourself at ease knowing you're alive and in a safe place" that eased the tension within his gut. He sat on the bed as Mitchell went off to another room of the building they were in. He returned holding some fruits and bottles of water. Upon seeing the food, his stomach growled, alerting to his hunger. Mitchell gave a small laugh "guess almost dyin' gives ya' the hunger pains, huh"

Laying the fruit and water down, Mitchell raised a finger to his face "small, slow bites, and chew as well" with that he left the room again, mug in hand. Taking an apple, he bit into the flesh. It was sweet, crunchy, and juicy with a slight sour flavor. It was heaven. Following the doctors' advice, he took small bites, and chewed slowly. Even so, the apple was gone within a minute with a water chaser. Next was a cactus pear and water, finishing up with toasted pinyon nuts.

Mitchell had returned as he ate, settling back down in his chair with a full mug of something black and steaming. He returned to reading his book; the spine held a name, but it was indecipherable. Did he know how to read? judging by the squiggles on the book he guessed the answer was no he could not read, or he at least had forgotten how.

He asked Mitchell what the words said; the doctor turned to see the spine "To Kill a Mockingbird" he said "it's a classic story from well before the war; made it into a movie too, but not as good". The doctor returned to the book and black drink, waiting in silence for his patient to finish.

The two remained silent for the duration of his breakfast; once finished, Mitchell finished off his drink and set his book down. "How's your stomach?" the doctor asked; considering a moment, he shrugged unsure what to say "feels alright, not queasy". Nodding, Mitchell leaned forward "do you remember anything from before you woke up?" Attempting to recall, all that came to mind was the image of a man, face blurred but his suit was distinct "a man in a checkered suit" then he recalled what the man had shown him before his botched execution "a…poker ch…" the last word was a struggle. "Poker chip" Mitchell supplied. Nodding, he looked to the doctor, confused.

Mitchell shook his head "can't say why anyone would shoot a young Courier carrying a simple poker chip. What else do you remember?" Trying to recall the memories, he felt nothing but a sluggish murk where memories once occupied. 'Not even pitch was as dark as his memories were' he thought, then 'why pitch, of all things, for comparison' "All I can remember was the checkered suit, not even the man's face, and the chip" But the chip was strange. Looking at Mitchell again, "how big is a poker chip?" he asked. Holding up thumb and forefinger, the doctor made a circle three-quarter of an inch wide.

Shaking his head "the chip I saw was bigger" using his own fingers to demonstrate "and shiny as well, with red and black paint". Nodding with a twitch of his lip, Mitchell sat back in his chair "well if you can remember minute details such as that, there's hope for your memories already". The words left him feeling slightly better; perhaps not everything he once was is lost. "Do you remember your name, son?" He opened his mouth, but uttered nothing. All hope sank as he realized that his name was vacant. Whereas the details of the man and chip were clear, his name was gone.

Seeing his distress Mitchell simply nodded "I feared this would happen, but maybe this will help" pulling a sheaf of paper from a breast pocket, the doctor unfolded it and held it up. It was a form of some type, but the block text made little sense. Catching his mistake, Mitchell turned the paper around for him to read. "Mojave Express Courier Service; Date August 10th, 2281. Delivery of Package to New Vegas" skipping a few lines, the doctor came to the box he'd been looking for "Name of Package Carrier: Alex Hugh, age twenty-seven".

Folding it and handing the paper off Mitchell said "nice to meet you Alex Hugh" Staring at the paper, at the indecipherable text, he thought 'sounds familiar, but it doesn't…fit properly'. Sounds of movement drew his attention back from the thoughts; the doctor held a machine to his face, a small screen showing a reflection of, what he assumed, was _his_ face. Dark-chocolate brown hair, eyes a shade of lighter brown, prominent cheek and jaw bones. A pale scar, from right of the frontal lobe area of the skull to the temple, cut a wide path across the tan skin of his face. "Had to go rooting through your grey matter to remove all the bone fragments to rebuild that part of skull, but I got most of it"

Besides the scar, his skull looked normal. Nodding, he handed the reflector machine back to Mitchell. Stowing the device in a desk drawer, the doctor turned his gaze on him again, saying nothing, fingering an end of the bushy white mustache. "I've never had a case such as yours before, so I'll defer to what you think you're capable of. Do you want to try standing; not walking just standing and we'll go from there?" So much had already happened, and it was a sheer luck to be alive, but pushing his body beyond its limits would impede recovery. 'Still,' he thought 'to stand on my feet, know that I'm close to finding answers to this situation, is worth the strain; isn't it?'.

'Alex Hugh' the name was familiar but it did not register, 'if that is my name, I must know why it sounds hallow, and if it is not then I must find someone who knows my name'. If his luck so far held, he may just find someone who did know his name. "I want to stand" Alex said; as it was the only name he had, it might as well be what he answers to. Mitchell nodded; approaching, the doctor pulled a wheelchair and set it next to the bed; "an aid, if ya' need it".

Kneeling to his right, Mitchell stuck out his forearm to offer assistance. Alex took it, but sat still as the doctor leveled a heavy gaze upon him. "If you feel dizzy, I'll set you back down at first sign of distress" nodding, the two braced for the effort.

Mitchell rose on his knees, leaning away to lever Alex onto his own legs; working the muscles of calves and thighs, he followed the doctor. 'So far, so good' no rush of vertigo or queasiness; "damn, son, you're a tall guy" Mitchell breathed, face going red from the exertion. Finally, both stood upright.

Mitchell was breathless, face red; "are you okay?" Alex said. He guessed his weight was more than what the man had expected. Waving off the concern, the doctor straightened with a huff, "ah, don't mind me, just an old man who thinks he's still twenty-five". A minute passed before he straightened up.

"How do ya' feel? Queasy? Vertigo?" Besides the gunshot wound and memory loss, he felt healthy. "I feel alright, all considered" Mitchell nodded, seemingly satisfied. "Sit back down and rest some more, and don't think about tryin' to walk an inch, or else" the doctor looked so serious, Alex did not wish to know exactly what '…or else' meant. Nodding once, he sat back down on the bed. Mitchell left the once more, and came back dragging a pack; literally dragging it on the floor.

"This was found not far from where you were dumped; from its contents I'm guessin' its yer's", with a grunt, Mitchell heaved the bag and set it against the bed frame. "Will you be okay if'n I leave ya alone for a bit, coffee isn't the only thing I have for breakfast, just to get me started for the day" Nodding again, Alex took one of the pack shoulder straps in hand and hauled it up beside him.

* * *

><p>Agustin Mitchell left his house and patient for the Prospector's Saloon. It was a warm day, dry as is often the case in October, but cooler than the summer certainly. The dry air assaulted his nose and eyes, already sucking out moisture. Moving easily despite his bum-leg the doctor entered the shelter of the saloon.<p>

It was shadowed inside - Trudy usually kept most of the lights off throughout the day. Sunny Smiles sat at one of the tables just inside, reading a _True Police Stories_ magazine. She enjoyed those immensely, and bought any from traders. Her dog, Cheyenne lay at her feet. A good girl that one, loyal and protective; Sunny had found the dog when it was a pup, being chased by geckos. She'd killed the geckos, and the pup had never been away from her once ever since.

Mitchell remembered that day, because Sunny had come into his office bitten and chewed on by the critters. She'd just got a small hunting rifle to shoot with, a piece known around as a _Varmint Rifle_ 'cause of its small size. She was happy about killing the geckos but had yelped and squirmed when the stitches went in. Cheyenne consoled her the whole time, until the last thread of gut was in and tied off.

Sunny looked up from her magazine, saw him, and stood. She strolled over and gave him a hug, "mornin' doc, how's the patient?" A peck on the forehead and a return hug, Mitchell said "woke up this mornin' almost an hour ago now; already able to stand on his own". When the Courier had been found, it was him and Sunny who'd dug him up, the other one…couldn't actually dig.

Sunny broke the contact and gave him a look. "No, you cannot see him yet, he's still recovering", to that she quirked her lip to show her disappointment. "Breakfast is ready for ya' in the oven to keep warm" Reminded of the fried gecko egg, cut of gecko meat cooked well done, cottage fries and cactus pear juice, his mouth watered up. Tipping an imaginary hat, Mitchell said "thank ya', darlin'". She just rolled her eyes at him and returned to her chair and magazine.

Rounding the corner to the bar top, Mitchell saw Easy Pete in the middle of his own breakfast. The barkeep and owner of the saloon turned and smiled; lovely women, Trudy, reminded him of his wife at times with that smile, and her cooking. "Mornin' doc; how's that boy you dug up doin'?" she asked. "Woke up this mornin', in fact; able to stand already but can't remember his name".

Sidling onto a stool, Trudy took his meal out. The smell assaulted his nose before it was in front of him; a mix of egg, potato, meat and spices all melded together by skilled cook. Setting the plate down, Mitchell would have dug in immediately had it not been the woman's penchant for her patrons to have manners while eating. She set next a napkin with a fork, and poured a generous glass of pear juice.

Mitchell ate slowly, savoring the flavors, rinsing with sips of juice. Easy Pete finished off his plate, dropped a few caps on the counter, then exited the saloon to sit outside on one of the porch chairs; that was the man's want these days, eating, drinking and sitting out watching the small world of Goodsprings go by.

Finishing off the last bit of egg and meat followed by the last bit of juice, Mitchell paid his tab and left. Easy Pete was on the porch, but not alone; a younger man sat in another chair. Younger, around late thirties, maybe into his forties; the man wore a duster and cowboy hat, carrying a guitar on which he presently strummed out a tune. Pete had a harmonica out and was playing along with the tune. It was a good sound, no lyrics, but an easy and slow song, which seemed to suit the slow pace of the wasteland before them.

Nodding, with a short "gentlemen" as a greeting and farewell both, Mitchell stepped off the porch back to his house. Almost to his fence, the other compatriot who'd rescued the Courier approached. "A fine good mornin' to you, doc. How's that boy we found doin'?" it asked. The robot, Victor it identified as, unsettled the doctor. He recognized the model from descriptions given by travelers to and from Vegas. A Securitron it was called, he thought.

"He woke this morning, and was still awake when I left for breakfast about twenty minutes ago" Mitchell said. In all of its time here, the machine never took an interest in anything before the kid…except mowing down geckos, cazadores, even a Deathclaw once. The skull of the beast was now mounted in the saloon. For keeping those critters out, most folks respected the machine; but, having been born in a vault, the doctor didn't accept the benefits of technology at face value. Tech always had a hidden edge, a demon in the wiring.

"YEEHAW! DOC; that's some mighty fine news, I tell ya wat'" replied Victor; that damn picture of a cowboy and that accent also put Mitchell on edge; it was too comical for a machine. Wanting to leave, the doctor gestured at his combination home and office "I gotta get back to my patient now" taking long unhurried strides so as not to provoke the machine, he entered the house.

* * *

><p>Alex removed the contents of the pack and set them down in various places arrayed in ordered rows on the bed. He sat in a chair, and was currently cleaning a nine-millimeter pistol. Though no memories inhabited his mind, the actions were familiar. Disassembling the weapon had happened as a blur, each part arrayed perfectly, moving from one to the next with oil and rag found in a side pocket.<p>

'Twenty-gauge, breach-loading, two round shotgun, colloquially known as _Caravan Shotgun_; old, fine condition well maintained. Ten-millimeter, twelve round magazine, pistol; old, beaten, properly oiled, no signs of wear on machine; frame is scoured and beaten. Forty-millimeter, breach-loading grenade launcher; stock is beaten and scratched, otherwise perfectly functional.' These observations raced through his mind as he picked up, inspected, and cleaned each weapon. There was purpose to the analysis. Taking stock, perhaps an inventory of everything?

Without memory of his actions, the actions alone eased the troubled state of his mind. During the inventory-taking of his pack, he'd found food, clothes, medicine, a couple of books, magazines on differing subjects. And armor. Those he set to one side of the bed, two suits, one of leather and the other metal-plated. Trying on neither, already knowing they would fit comfortably; the suits were a question of which no answer was forthcoming.

Ending the task, Alex sat back in the chair, staring at the assortment of weapons, supplies, clothes and armor. 'Armed well enough to assault a small force, supplies to last several weeks; does a Courier carry this type of equipment?' Without answers, questions continually arose into his mind. All he knew was the answer to those questions had to be found.

The front door opened; footsteps echoed down the hall. Doctor Mitchell came around the corner; either ignoring him being in a chair or otherwise occupied, the man made no comment to him being in a chair and not in the currently crowded bed; walking over, the doctor nodded in greeting before considering the supplies and munitions on the bed.

"Any of this make some sense to ya'?" Mitchell asked; "none" Alex said. Turning to the doctor, he gave the man a fixed stare. "I need to get better, by tomorrow at least"; a doctor's instinct would have been to flat out refuse, having no idea of the potential complications. But the look on his face halted any protestations.

With a sigh of resignation, Mitchell face took on a critical expression, as though making an assessment for major surgery. "You want to try walkin', now?" he asked. Alex nodded in confirmation. Another sigh and the doctor offered his right hand. Turning the chair, both men grasped around the others forearm.

Mitchell pulled and Alex pushed out of the chair. Standing, he took a step: no adverse reaction. Another step, nothing; soon he was walking around the room with confidence, and then other rooms adjacent to the medical office, ending with a full circuit in the living room. The two men sat opposite each other, him on the couch and the doctor on a chair.

They played at word and behavioral association, but produced little result. Then came the pictures; most triggered no reaction, a few caused his head to pound, as though memories locked away were smashing upon the bars of their cage, attempting escape. The last brought forth an image, but vanished without gleaning any detail.

"Well I was never one for all this psycho-babble medicine, so I don't know what to make of this" Mitchell said, chart in hand and chewing on a pencil. Shrugging, he set the chart down and gave Alex a serious look. "I understand you want to get out here and find the fella' who done this to ya', but as a doctor I can't let you out of here without further assurance that you're at least out of the worst of it".

Chafing under the old man's worry, he would have said something he'd later regret, but held his tongue and settled for diplomacy. "As you have said yourself, you know little of psychology and by extent the effects of trauma on the brain. Beyond my show of physical capability so far, I can't give you more assurance than what you already have. The best solution would be to find someone who has more knowledge and ability in this".

Mitchell nodded. Finally looking up at his patient, he twisted one end of the curled moustache, considering. Deciding the doctor stood and left the sitting room, leaving Alex behind. Going to the bedroom, and pushing a cabinet aside, he knelt at a floor safe. Entering the combination (the day he'd married), the door opened with a pneumatic hiss.

_I never thought to see this again_. Retrieving the sought item Mitchell shut the door, automatically resealing and locking itself. Back in the sitting room, Alex waited; he looked over as the doctor reentered, and took notice of the thing-some kind of machine-in his hand. Taking the seat again he held the machine out, in addition to a glove.

"Put this on, it'll give me a better idea of your condition" the machine obviously was to be worn on the wrist, stopping two inches below the elbow. Allowing Mitchell to affix the glove and device, nothing occurred when the doctor sat back. It sat on his arm, cuff open, the screen dark.

"Activate: Personal Information Processor, model 3000; code input: 1-7-7-6 / November-7 verification – In the darkest of days, in ignorance, guide my path into the light and truth" The machine came alive then. The cuff sealed and squeezed, almost painful; numbers and text scrolled across the screen, and a low hum grew into an electronic cry. A sharp pain beneath the device shot up his arm and traveled throughout his body. And there it suddenly ended: no more pain but an acute awareness which subsided back to a 'normal' perception of the world.

Alex could not take his eyes from the machine. Playing with the controls he found what looked to be basic functions: a map, notes page, compass. Other functions were more archaic, such as the one displaying every detail of his physical condition, even finding areas where bones had broken and re-healed years ago. Heartbeat, brain telemetry, lung capacity; one in particular was fascinating: the area between the frontal lobe and right temple was highlighted in red, and flashing. Indecipherable text scrawled across the screen, suggestions for treatment he guessed.

Alex might have been angry at Mitchell for the discomfort, but the device fascinated him. "It's called a PIP-Boy, P-I-P capitalized for reasons; lemme have a quick look there" he glanced at the screen, snorted a laugh and sat back in the chair again "a machine tellin' me what you already said. Don't know if that's supposed to encourage me to let ya' go or worry the machine agrees with its master and wants to leave" Mitchell had a smile on his face, but a slight infliction gave away his annoyance.

Alex looked first at Mitchell then the machine, _Pip-Boy_, he told himself. "Master?" that's all he could think of for a question. The doctor nodded, and held up a hand to forestall the protestations. "A Pip-Boy may only have one owner. I had it for years; kept me alive for many years out in the wastes. But I took it off after my wife passed; we lived in one of those vaults you see, and I took it off because it reminded me of our home before it was taken away, before…"

The doctor had stopped in his telling; Alex saw a far-off look in the old man's eyes. He was remembering his own youth. Mitchell shook off the recollection, and though hiding it well his eyes held back tears and his voice sounded as though speaking around a lump. "It's taken you now, so unless you take it off and give it to someone else, it's yours. And taking it off ain't easy: you need the right phrase, or computer know-how and I have neither". Nodding, he looked down at the device. It was a fascinating piece.

* * *

><p>Alex sat on a bed in the spare room of the doctor's house-"recovery room" as Mitchell called it-waiting for the man to return from the saloon with lunch. By the clock on the Pip-Boy it was noon thirty minutes ago, and he was starving. After toying with the machine, it revealed a radio function. Flicking through the ones available, Radio New Vegas seemed to grant news and music, both appreciated to fill the curiosity of the world outside the office and the boredom. He particularly enjoyed the one called 'Big Iron'.<p>

Mitchell had asked him to stay the day and night for recovery and observation; as an enticement they would go to the saloon for supper, after most of the town was finished, however, to avoid the curious from overbearing him.

For some reason his body felt tight, and not from hunger. Muscles long without use felt slack, others tight as steel coils. Sitting up, he stretched, but stood when that proved ineffective. Bending back, his vertebrae popped…four times, the last between the shoulder blades. _Need more_.

Deciding on physical exertion, Alex sat on the floor. Moving on muscle memory, he pushed his body to its limit through several routines. The effort drenched his body in sweat, the heat of muscles burning away the tension. For once, the pall of shadow where memories should be was distant in thought; this felt right, these things he knew without the need to remember.

The front door opened, but Alex did not hear it. He only realized someone was in the house when the door to the room opened and Mitchell stood in the doorway, gaping. At first, the doctors' bewilderment was strange. Until he realized that the world was upside down, _no, that's me who's upside-down_.

Tipping forward, Alex landed on the balls of his feet. His body was no longer stiff and taught but flexible. The doctor still looked at him funny, but now there was annoyance in the look as well. "Doctor's orders were to take it easy, so who's the doctor around here, hm?" he didn't know why, but the admonishment both chastised and shamed him. This man had treated him and taken care of him for over two weeks and he'd paid that back with disobedience.

Alex, head down, said "I'm sorry", which surprised Mitchell; he shook his head, muttering "youth". "I got some food from the saloon, sorry it took so long. Word of your recovery has spread throughout the town; you're the talk on everybody's lips right now". The doctor left the room and he followed into a small dining room where they sat down to a lunch of well-done gecko steaks, potatoes and Sunset Sarsaparilla. The drink was magnificent, sweet with a spicy tingle with a hint of mint as well.

"Good stuff, huh" Mitchell said after a swig from his bottle, "don't know where they come from now, but most people don't complain because it's not irradiated". Their meal done, Alex and the doctor attended to themselves. Alex sat in the room, continuing the maintenance of the weapons from the backpack. The 10mm was intriguing; it was modified. Toying with a switch, a blue beam shot from a small diode affixed to the weapon. Deactivating the laser, _it is a laser, for targeting,_ he ejected the magazine.

By its design, he could tell it was a high-capacity magazine holding sixteen rounds. Disassembling the machine revealed a built-in silencer; a 10 was a relatively quiet pistol, but the added silencer would render it barely audible even within a closed environment, more akin to a cough than a gunshot. This pistol, among all of the weapons, was the only modified piece. Setting the pistol aside, he counted the ammunition for each.

The day moved slowly in the sitting room, a clock, an old mechanical piece in fine condition, rang out every hour. Alex was engrossed within his thoughts, either cataloguing his supplies or oiling his armors to prevent them drying out as the earth beneath the sun over the Mojave Wasteland. Even in this house, in good condition despite two-hundred years of negligence, was dry as a skeleton. A knock on the door drew him back into reality.

Mitchell stood at the door, a coat and hat on, "it's about seven; I'm headin' over to the saloon if'n ya wanna join me". The doctor took in his patient's state of dress, or relatively lack thereof as he still sat in the same shirt and drawers from this morning, the same he'd found the lad exercising in. "Might wanna consider something more comfortable, and warm; the Mojave gets cold at night". Leaving Alex to change, he stood by the front door to wait.

Alex came from the recovery room, old jeans with a plain leather belt, boots, button-down shirt tucked in, and a trail-worn duster missing the sleeves. Outside the house, twilight colored the sky in reds and orange. The distant mountains, jagged teeth of the earth reaching toward the sky, were framed in the pre-dusk light. The light, quiet of the wastes, and small town rendered the environment peaceful, belying the outside world of violence.

Down the road and up the stairs of the saloon, the doctor turned to Alex, "Sunny Smiles, something of a tom-boy and critter hunter around here, spends a lot of time in the Prospector, she might ask questions; also has a dog, Cheyenne, sweet girl but starts yappin' at anyone she doesn't know. Just let her smell your hand and she'll quiet down. Don't try anything else, though, she might bite". Nodding in ascent, the two men entered the bar.

As forewarned, a black and white Husky rose on its legs, haunches raised and head down, a snarl on its lips. The dog barked, but did not approach; a young woman stood from a chair, setting down a magazine. "Cheyenne, calm" the dog relaxed, but kept its eyes on him. The woman, closer to a girl really, approached; "so you're the guy Doc and I pulled out of the ground; nice to meet you without all that dirt".

Alex considered this girl, Sunny Smiles. She stood up to his chest, a slender build, red hair, brown eyes, and a dusky complexion. Faded jeans, leather boots and jacket clothed her, accentuating her figure. _She's attractive_ he thought peripherally. Stepping back, he bowed, which surprised her "I thank you for saving my life; I am in your debt".

Sunny looked to Mitchell, perplexed, as Alex stood upright again. The doctor shrugged, indicating he couldn't give a reason to this show of gratitude. She looked back at this man, this _Alex_ as she'd heard Doc say at noon. He was tall, _damn tall_, by a head and a quarter next to her. She stuck out her hand, "Sunny Smiles, nice to meet cha'".

He considered her hand for a moment, and then took it. _A fine grip, confidant, calluses on the palms and fingers, scar on the forearm-a bite mark, stitched together with precision_. "Alex Hugh, or so I've been told", they let each other go, Sunny talking a step back. "So you really don't remember? Not a thing". He nodded, affirming the question and statement. Sunny quirked an eyebrow "well if you're up for it, and Doc let's ya, I can help get your trigger-finger back".

"I hadn't realized I'd lost it" Alex said with a smirk. Sunny looked taken aback at the remark, but said to Mitchell "I thought we saved a Courier, not a comedian" she shook her head, a small smile on her face. "Trudy's got dinner for the both of ya". Both men nodded thanks; moving around the wall to the bar of the saloon, he found a woman in her mid-forties reading from a book. Her black hair, tinged with silver and spreading, and the sweater over the conservative dress she wore evoked a matronly appearance. Her worn face held a loving nature and a strong resolution both.

The woman, Trudy he guessed, looked up from her book as the two approached. She smiled and stood, setting her book down; "evenin' doc, so this' the boy you been tending to?" she said, appraising Alex. Straightening his spine, squaring shoulders and feet apart in an easy stance, he stood beneath her scrutiny. She approached, hand out, and he took it in his; her fingers were dainty, wrinkled from years of keeping her bar clean and her patrons supplied with food and drink. _Mother's hands_, he thought; _do I have a mother? Alive or dead? A father or siblings?...do I have family worried for my safety?_ No answers he could find, and that saddened him…until he smelled the meal.

Meat and potatoes, roasted maize, grilled mushrooms, diced, their juices drowning the generous cuts of Brahmin steak. His stomach churned, mind blank as the smells registered, and his mouth watered. Miss Trudy released his hand; Alex made for the nearest stool, but was stopped by Mitchell, hat in hand. "Hang your coat; Trudy enforces manners in her place, she may come off nice but break a rule she'll gave a fierce tongue-lashing" Nodding, he divested himself of the coat and hung it with the doctors' on a rack at the end of the bar.

The two men sat, the old one sitting forward, relaxed, the young with a straight back and strong posture._ Not many carry themselves with such a proud aire_, Trudy thought as she brought their meals out of the oven. Setting down the plates beside napkin, fork and knife, she turned as the radio began to emit static before dying out, "damn it" she said, fiddling with the nob. With a sigh she gave up "Jeff'll be in bed by now, have to wait til' mornin' to get it looked at". Still looking at the beaten piece of crap radio on counter, "do you mind if I take a look at it?" she turned, seeing Alex standing, plate of food untouched.

Mitchell was looking at the young man with interest, wondering what the lad had up his proverbial sleeve. Alex just stood, awaiting an answer; Trudy shrugged, "if'n ya think ya got the skill, go ahead; if ya can't fix it don't break it more than it already is". Nodding, the young man came around the bar counter and bent forward to inspect the old radio. Not really sure of what to do, but feeling that he did, he took it in both hands, intending to look at the back. An electronic burr eschewed from the PIP-Boy accompanied by a light which encompassed the old machine he held.

Dropping the radio, Alex backed away, his backside hitting the bar counter. Whatever was had ceased. "What the hell?" Mitchell said gaining his feet, looking between the lad and radio. Looking down, he noted a series of sentences across the screen. Turning to show the doctor, holding it out to inspect, the older man read "PIP-Boy 3000, new function active: RobCo Dynamic Scanner – allows user to analyze any mechanical or electronic object and suggest repair methods" a second line read "Warning! Scanner interrupted, replace gloved hand upon object to begin scan again".

Looking up at Trudy and Alex, Mitchell gave a shrug "these old things had all kinds a' bells and whistles. Some were more useful than others" letting go of the young man's hand, he sat back to the waiting dinner. Looking back at the radio, he shrugged, replacing the gloved hand. The blue-white light reappeared, a spinning white line circled the exterior, and bells and whistles rang out acknowledging the machine had done its job.

The screen displayed a three-dimensional graphic of the radio, to the right text scrawled across the screen, unreadable. But the display showed the radio, and virtually disassembled it revealing the workings inside. Two parts were highlighted in red; turning to Trudy "do you have a screwdriver?" he asked. She retrieved one, and with he removed the casing. The problem was apparent, with or without the scan. A couple of fuses and vacuum tubes, connected directly into the receiving antennae, were burnt out. Removing the parts Alex looked again at Trudy "are there any spare parts or a place to get some?"

She nodded, "I have some old junk in the back, and if there ain't any of what ya need, Chet the general store owner will have some; miserly bastard is a mag-pie and prob'ly won't sell cheap, but I'll cover any expenses". She gestured then at the plate of food left untouched, "but you don't worry 'bout that; eat now, fix later" Alex nodded before rounding the bar once more and setting down to eat. Before digging into his meal, however, he activated the radio function of the PIP-Boy. Trudy jumped a little in surprise eschewing behind her; instinctively she looked at the radio, registered it was broken, then turned to her customers, where upon she saw the fluctuating telemeter of the gadget on the boy's wrist.

"I thought a temporary replacement would be welcome" Alex said to the surprised woman, then set down to the meal. It was pleasant, sitting with Mitchell, eating steak and listening to easy music. Halfway through a potato, the music stopped and a voice came over the speaker, jovial and jocular, "Good Evening, this is Mr. New Vegas. It's gonna be a blustery night folks as we move further into the fall; according to the ol' weather machines here we got a projected fifty degrees with winds gusting at twenty-five. Onto the news: Legion forces hunkered down at The Fort have been unusually quiet as of late; activity in and out of Cottonwood Cove has nearly ceased. Speculations by NCR officers say the Legion is waiting for an opportunity to move against the Mojave, but do not specify any location".

Music followed the news broadcast, and the air of the saloon held a tense quality. Trudy let out a breath she'd been holding "I don't wanna think what'll happen when those Legion boys start causing trouble", fidgeting, nervous, she grabbed a pack of cigarettes from below the counter. Before she could pull one free, Mitchell stood and put his old hand atop of hers. "Trudy, don't; it's not worth fillin' your lungs with this crap".

Still holding the pack, Trudy looked at Mitchell, and he with his hand still on hers, looked back. "You're old enough to know better and young enough that you got many years ahead of ya, but not with this". Eventually the pack was under the counter again and the doctor back in his chair, but still staring at the woman before him, who smiled "you know full well I'm near on thirty now". "And still as lovely as the day I came into town, eh how long ago now?".

She laughed, dispelling her tension from the news, at the same time as Sunny came around the corner, rolling her eyes, "get a room you two". Trudy gave the young woman a hard look "Alejandra Amanda Anderson!, were you just eavesdropping?". Alex looked up from his plate of food at the young woman _Alejandra Amanda Anderson_, he thought. She was looking anywhere but at the barwoman, whose crossed arms and stiff posture rendered a forceful appearance to a person he had originally taken as matronly, but now looked more of a lioness.

Sunny-or Alejandra-threw her arms in the air in an exaggeration of exasperation "these walls don't stop sound, I can hear you both easily, damn", she stalked back to the other room. Returning to the plate, three-quarters empty now, he felt something nudge the back of his pants. Turning, Alex saw the dog, Cheyenne, eying him with curiosity and guarded caution, and his meat with ill-concealed greedy hunger. Shrugging, he took a piece of meat and held it above her head. "Sit" he commanded; she sat immediately. Raising an eyebrow, "roll over", she did once then stood on all fours'. "Speak" came next: Cheyenne barked once. Impressed, he dropped the meat and the dog caught it effortlessly.

Mitchell, Trudy and…Sunny, until he asked had stared the for the whole affair. "Very smart dog you have, Miss…" he didn't know how to address her know, knowing two names existed. She rolled her eyes, "Just call me Sunny, or Sunny Smiles if you prefer something proper; but no one calls me _Alejandra Amanda Anderson_; I don't let no one call me that,…"-she glared at Trudy, who raised her hand "_Anyone_, Alejandra"-"…unless I let them, which I don't, usually".

Walking over to her dog, Sunny did smile as the dog turned a toothy grin at her. "Yeah, Cheyenne's the sweetest girl ya ever did meet, smart as whip and bold, always chasing down rascally critters who came at our water", she knelt and took the dogs' head in her hands, rocking back and forth grinning wide. The dog reciprocated with rapid swishes of tail against the dusty floor, sweeping fine grit away in a fan-shape.

Finishing their meal, Alex and Mitchell stood, the doctor paying the tab for both of them. Before retrieving his coat, Trudy, took him into a back room, where among much junk and refuse, he found the necessary parts, just the right type. Connecting them into the radio was simple, the case easily replaced. Testing the radio, sweet music played over the speaker. Gratefully, Trudy paid him for the work, fifty bottle caps, plus an extra twenty-five to "help ya get back on yer feet". Surprised at the generosity, he gave her a bow and "Thank you, ma'am", before grabbing his coat.

Outside was very cool and the wind made it slightly cooler; dust swirled in lazy airborne waves on the old cracked road of the town. Mitchell withdrew a thin handkerchief and held it over his face, the diaphanous material easy to look through in places, worn it was with age. Alex followed close, arm over his eyes to try and keep the dust out.

Inside the house was mercifully draft-free. Hanging their coats and Mitchells' hat on a stand, they both proceeded to their rooms; it was getting dark outside, and the house had few lights, and little electricity to spare. In his room, Alex sorted his clothing and armor, stowed most back into the pack, and laid out others for the morning. The weapons he also stored in the pack; but the 10 millimeter…he felt disinclined to put it away.

The old machine felt natural in his hand, its old frame scoured from years; the grips, some kind of wood, also scratched but shining from constant use. Giving in, despite feeling safe in this place, Alex slid the pistol beneath his pillow. Disrobed, he crawled into bed, lying on his side, left hand touching the pistol grip. The position was comfortable and the presence of the pistol an assurance he did not understand the need to satisfy, but soon sleep claim all thought.

* * *

><p>In the night, as Alex lay asleep, the PIP-Boy came alive, its screen streaming numbers at great speed, too fast for the eye to catch, but the screen soon went blank. Two seconds before it lit again, this time with text:<p>

ANALYZING…

SATELLITE CONNECTION ESTABLISHED…

OPERATING SYSTEMS SCAN…COMPLETE

HOST PHYSICAL SCAN…

…

…

…

COMPLETE – HOST 99.95 PERCENT CAPACITY…

ACCEPTABLE…

ACTIVATING PROGRAM: UNITED STATES SPECIAL FORCES ASSISTED TACTICAL SYSTEM…

OPENING PACKAGES…

SNIPER PACKAGE…ACTIVE

ELECTRONIC WARFARE PACKAGE…ACTIVE

AUTHORIZATION – NOVEMBER 7…ACKNOWLEDGED

UPDATING SOFTWARE…

…

…

COMPLETE, UPDATE 10-20-2281 – 2100 HRS…

SLEEP MODE…

The light of the PIP-Boy faded, leaving its new owner unaware.

_Author's Note:_

_Good Evening Constant and Faithful Readers,_

_Finally done, a long time since the first chapter, but just today I wrote a mid-term paper due the next morning, that and general laziness all-around concerning college life. But now this is done. This was enjoyable to write, especially the completely non-Fallout canon bits, all dialogue is my own, nothing from the game, period. It's hard to tell what was the most difficult to write in this chapter with how much detail I put in, but 'totally worth it'._

_For those of you who did not catch them, there are some Bioware, specifically Mass Effect references in this chapter, specifically the November 7 bits. That is NATO Phonetic there, standing for "N7", the Alliance Special Forces, highest rank. I am a diehard ME fan, so odes to the greatness that is Mass Effect._

_Same policy of reading and reviewing as last chapter: well thought out critiques, notes of encouragement are welcome. Naysayers and haters may leave._

_Goodbye for now,_

_Tutor Veritatis_


	3. Goodsprings, 2

October 21, 2281

Goodsprings Medical Office, home of Agustin Mitchell, M.d.

0600 hrs.

"Merda" He hissed as the noise and uncomfortable sensation would not cease; raising the offending object to eye level, the screen showed an old bell, simple graphics emphasizing a chiming motion. The machine eschewed an obscenely annoying sound from its speaker, and it was vibrating. The tingle of the embedded motor an annoyance enough to wake him; tapping the screen deactivated the function immediately.

Rolling onto his back, Alex rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. He felt a great deal better than yesterday morning, a combination of good food and rest the obvious contributors. Sitting up, stretching, and subsequently walking to the bathroom held little physical difficulty. Listening to the house, no sounds came from the doctor's room. Assuming the man to be still abed, he decided on exercise to wait.

In the sitting room, on hands and the balls of the feet, he began a routine of push-ups until fatigue set into the elbow-joints, moving onto crunches from there. Positioning arms above his head to stretch the oblique muscles and sucking in the gut, he sat up; held at forty-five degrees, then back down, repeating until fatigue. Sweat began to bead on his skin through the routines, soon soaking his body.

He must have been at the task for two hours, as Mitchell came around the corner wearing a loose shirt and shorts, carrying his customary mug not yet full. The doctor looked at his patient, who continued to exert himself while returning the stare. Shaking his head, he proceeded to the kitchen for the first of three morning pick-me-ups.

Returning to the sitting room fifteen minutes later, mug steaming and book in hand, Mitchell sat on the old couch, half reading the old novel. He watched his patient, Alex, moving from one exercise to the next, not slowing, and targeting every muscle group the doctor could identify. Despite the loss of memory, this routine was so ingrained it took little conscious effort to engage the body into physical exertion. Finally, standing, and then bending, he dropped forward. Before crashing to the floor, however, using hands to stop the fall and following the momentum up, the young man stood upon his hands, legs and feet straight.

His patient remained in that position for about one minute, face calm, eyes closed. The blank passivity Alex bore reminded Mitchell of some old meditation techniques he'd read about years ago, from some old alternative medical texts. He never applied any of that, fascinating as it was, reasoning most people nowadays wouldn't have the patience for the methods. This young man now showed him otherwise.

Exhaling, eyes opening, he tipped forward and landed on his feet. The back of the gray shirt was soaked in sweat, the underpants stained darker as well. Mitchell could just smell the sweat, a tangy ripeness exacerbated by a lack of hygiene.

"Shower in the bathroom works if'n ya wanna wash up; I recommend it as you haven't bathed since ya came here. And don't worry 'bout the PIP, it's completely waterproof, and the cuff has anti-bacterials' to keep the skin healthy; also damn hard to get off". Mitchell said, still reading and drinking. "Thank You" Alex said, and then proceeded into the bedroom he'd used. Among the items in his pack were soap, a brush, and a tube of paste; the tube was blank, but that part of his mind which allowed him to recall and perform activities, such as exercise, also recalled the tube. Accompanied with a spare shirt and shorts, he entered the bathroom. It was old but clean, yellowed porcelain gleaming from the sunlight filtering through window.

Peeling the sweat drenched clothes off, he stepped into the shower. The old shower dial held red and blue colors in a semi-circle, no need to read the accompanying two letters. Setting the temperature, Alex stood beneath the spray. Relief washed down his body accompanying the water, grime, sweat and dead skin coursing down his legs and into the drain. Soaping and scrubbing, he thought of this predicament. No memory, bits of reflex and old habit the only guide, and no idea about the men who'd taken the strange package: a Poker Chip.

Troubling situation, but now he was capable despite remaining physical trauma. Grabbing the paste tube, he unscrewed the cap. Putting the tip between his lips, sucking a measure out, then taking some water as well, he began to churn the paste. Within seconds the stuff was a viscous liquid, tingling as it worked on the gums and between the teeth, dissolving bacteria and food particulates. Cleaning for a couple of minutes, he spat and turned off the water. Once dry and clothes on, Alex left the bathroom to dress.

In the room, considering two items, he thought '_that girl last night-Sunny or Alejandra-said she'd help today_' Deciding on safety, Alex took the armor of the two. It was leather, well made and strong. First went on the pants, with a thick belt and heavy buckle, a jacket with boiled-leather plates sown in, socks, boots and greaves. Walking, the suit sat well on his body; bringing a foot up, he kicked out and held… five seconds… ten. Maintaining balance, set the leg down, then lashed out with a fist, right hook, left, another kick.

Satisfied, Alex walked into the sitting room; Mitchell still sat on the couch. He looked up at the approaching clomp of feet. Taking in his patient, now in fine leather armor, the lad seemed every bit the fighter he'd imagined: tall, strong, skilled and confidant. Setting the book down, mug emptied a while ago, the doctor stood before his patient.

"Yer' progress is nothing short of a damn miracle; I'll tell ya' I've seen close calls before, but you either made a deal with the reaper or you've got one damn good guardian angel watching out for ya'. Let me take one last look, and then I think I can let ya go". Mitchell ran some tests, most nowhere near his head, even testing the reflex of the knee-jerk. Finally the doctor inspected data from the PIP-Boy, concluding the examination.

Mitchell stood back and looked up at his patient; with a satisfied smirk, he stuck his hand out "you're as right as can be, I can't go any further; so I guess the only thing left is goodbye". Taking the proffered hand, the two men shook.

"I think goodbye for now may be more accurate; I may come back this way" Alex said. Mitchell nodded, hoping he would see this enigma of a young man once again; the Mojave was a strange place and strange events happen all the time: meeting someone is not the least of those.

Holding up a finger, the doctor went to a corner and picked up a satchel, full of medical supplies. "These should help out on the road", taking the bag, Alex examined the contents: bandages, stim-packs, anti-radiations, gut and needle, disinfectants, pain meds-practically everything a traveler could need in any given situation. "Thank You" he said, turning to leave the clinic.

"If you're curious about the folks who attacked ya, talk to Sunny, Trudy or Victor, those three know almost anything that goes on around town". Nodding, Alex almost reached the door when Mitchell came around the corner, this time with a hat in hand.

Holding it by the crown, the doctor held it out for him to take "this was my old travelin' hat, kept the sun and rains' off and my head warm. You would get more use out of it than I do nowadays", taking the hat, an oil-cloth and canvas, black, the sides turned up, he said nothing, considering.

"I never told you my name, did I?" acknowledging the question, Mitchell said "Agustin. Agustin Mitchell". With a small smile, almost imperceptible, Alex set the hat on his head. It fit well and the beaten old material felt comforting, worn down but still strong and tempered with use and age. "Goodbye, Agustin" he said, with a touch on the hat brim.

Turning he grabbed the gear sitting by the door, items he'd moved there after donning his armor: a belt, holster carrying the modified 10mm, sat on his left hip, grip forward for the right hand; his pack, an exterior sheath carrying the shotgun, slung over his left shoulder; and leg-clip strapped to the thigh carrying the grenade rifle. Outfitted, Alex turned the door handle and stepped into the sunlight of the morning in the Mojave Wasteland.

* * *

><p>Sunny sat outside the Saloon, drinking some of the water Goodsprings was known for these days while partly enjoying the morning sun before it got warmer. She was also waiting for…she could feel a flush on her face. Honestly she was being foolish, she barely knew the guy, Alex he said his name was. He'd just recovered from a shot to the head-<em>and he's strong<em>-, didn't remember anything about his past-_and tall_-, finally, he was attacked by three guys, who shot him on his knees and-_so handsome_. The flush was worse now, she could feel it. A groan escaped her lips as she brought a hand to her face, trying to hide from the world such was her embarrassment.

Cheyenne looked up from the perch by Sunny's feet, wondering if her friend felt ill. She didn't smell sick, she could always tell. Two-legs always had changed smells for different things. Concluding her two-leg friend was not sick, she put her head onto dead-lizard leg-wraps and chuffed, gaining her two-legs attention.

Sunny looked down at the dog: her friend, the one she had been blessed to have found and fallen in love with. Loyal, strong and protective people said of her Cheyenne, but they didn't really understand. Cheyenne was everything, the only family to be considered without hesitation. Trudy and Doc Mitchell were great, she loved them both. But this beautiful black and white dog was better than any man or woman alive.

Smiling, that one she was known for around this back-water hole of a town she would never leave, Sunny scratched behind Cheyenne's ears, the place she enjoyed best, more than a belly rub. The dog closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of her friend's small claws massaging and scratching the skin beneath the coat of fur.

Catching a new smell, Cheyenne looked up and saw the new two-legs; that one had smelled of death many nights ago. But last night she had smelled him, and was afraid. He was a predator, a hunter. But her friend had said calm-peace, safe that word meant-and stopped trying to scare off this intruder into her home. That one later gave her flesh from his own prey, so he was worth watching somewhat less than she'd thought.

Barking out, Cheyenne leaped from the porch and trotted over to the Doc's house; Sunny looked up to see the dog approaching a tall man in leather armor, a damn fine set too: thick pads on the torso-_strong and tall_-and greaves protecting the-_toned, powerful legs_-shins. The man, Alex she now realized, knelt and rubbed the dog's head, a slow motion, circular, kneading the scalp.

Another yelp and Cheyenne returned to her friend's side. Sunny watched the dog return, and then looked up to see Alex approaching. He looked very…'prepared' was a word but did not explain the sight of the man: armored and armed, a huge pack made him look powerful and intimidating, but the hat-that old hat of the Doc's, said he'd pass it onto the next worthy traveler to pass through the town but never did, saying they weren't quite deserving yet-to Sunny made him look less imposing.

"Mornin'" she called, with a small nod of acknowledgement. Alex nodded, not saying a word as he approached. Stepping before her and Cheyenne, he met her gaze, brown eyes meeting brown. Fidgeting somewhat under the scrutiny of the gaze, Sunny briefly looked to her right then back.

"So I said I'd…help you get yer' trigger back" she said; Alex raised an eyebrow as she caught her mistake too late "I mean finger, triggerfinger, back". Sunny felt lame and stupid for stumbling, berating herself for something childish and foolish such as this. She felt better when Alex gave a small smile, one that warmed up his whole face-_so handsome_.

"Thank you for taking the time to teach me" he said, proffering a handshake; they shook and Alex stepped around her, be-lining for the door. "Breakfast first, though" he said as the door swung open with a creak of old hinges. Sunny ran in after him.

"You gotta leave your irons at the door, and you can leave the pack here if'n ya want" Sunny said to catch his attention. Alex turned, saw a cabinet with _guns_ written across the top, and a sign-_leave your guns and troubles at the door_. Nodding in acknowledgment, he removed the pistol and grenade rifle, stowing them in the cabinet. Leaving the pack behind with shotgun attached, they rounded the corner to the bar.

Trudy sat in the same chair as she had the prior evening, reading again awaiting her regulars. Looking up she spied Sunny and that young man, Alex. Now he wore leather armor which effused the young man with an aire of confidence and strength. Touching the brim of a familiar hat "Good Morning, Miss Trudy" as way of greeting. With a smile, a big one that few people saw, "Good Morning, Mr. Hugh" the barwoman replied with a nod.

Leaving her perch, Trudy opened the oven and brought out two breakfasts of gecko bacon, scrambled gecko egg with diced cave mushrooms, accompanied with two bowls each of apple and pear cuts, with pear juice to drink.

Setting his new hat on the rack, Alex sat with Sunny and set to his meal. It was a quiet moment, wherein Sunny passed Cheyenne a piece of bacon when Trudy's back was turned. They sat for one quarter of an hour, cleaning their plates of food with some hardy wheat bread. Once finished, Alex brought out a fist-full of caps, but Trudy stopped him.

"On the house; you be safe now, okay" Trudy said. Returning the money to the pocket of his jacket, Alex retrieved his hat. "Thank you for the meal" he said. Sunny retrieved a bag from a back room, along with two rifles. Exiting the saloon, pack and guns retrieved, she handed one rifle to him.

"This we call a Varmint Rifle, seeing as its makes a good huntin' gun with a caliber large enough for a single kill-shot but light recoil" Sunny said as Alex examined the weapon; it was old and beaten, but the chamber was clean, the bolt worked and trigger clicked properly. Going around back of the saloon, he spied a row of bottles lined up.

"Simple targets, but good enough practice; show me what ya got" she said, handing off a fist of ammunition. Pulling the bolt and injecting the rounds was rapid, an automatic reflex honed by training; another thing Alex wished to know, what training, where and by who or what.

Shouldering the rifle, stock firm into the muscle beneath the collar bone, cheek pressed against the side and eyes, both open, focusing down the barrel. A breath, in, out; a second, emptying his lungs of air. Iron sights centered, target squared. Smooth pressure on the trigger, steady. Crack.

The rifle kicked but the muzzle held steady in his grip. Trigger hand moves to bolt, easing the chamber open, smooth motion. Empty casing jumps and spins; bolt slides back, return grip to trigger. Pull, smooth motion. Repeat.

The rifle kicked with each pull of the trigger, but the targets were always met. The final round; pull, and the bottle broke at the neck, just as the others had. The senses reasserted themselves, and Alex looked about. Sunny stood behind and to his left, mouth open.

"That's the fastest I've ever seen anyone shoot" she said; a beep emitted from his wrist. The PIP-boy scrawled with text. Gaining his feet, he showed Sunny; looking at him then the screen, she read, stumbling over a few words.

"PIP-boy combat results – weapon: five-point-five-six caliber hunting rifle, five round chamber. Shots fired: five. Total time: fifteen seconds. There's other stuff but that's at the top" looking up, Sunny gave him a look.

Shrugging, "it does other stuff, but I think I've barely began to know what it is truly capable of" he said. Turning his eyes to the screen, some of the words made sense. Double checking, a few words he could read, the numbers were far easier. Thinking: yes he could count, perhaps even do equations, but words escaped the grasping thoughts, but were not entirely out of reach. Though this should be good news, and it was, it still did not help the situation currently.

Mentally shrugging, Alex turned to Sunny, "is there anything else you can show me?" Shaking her head, she looked somewhat disappointed.

"That's all I could think of to try, and you're better than I could have imagined". Looking down at her feet, a light wind dusting her boots with dead earth, Sunny thought what else. Shrugging, figuring he was an okay shoot, and damn quick on top of that, she returned her gaze onto his brown eyes-_such a deep color, almost black_. "I was goin' over to the water springs out of town. It's a few miles south, not far but the Mojave, even in October can be harsh. We get damn geckos harassing townsfolk and travelers looking to resupply on water down there all the time; me and Cheyenne always have to go down and run 'em out".

Another shrug, "if'n ya feel up for the walk and a little work, you're welcome to come along; could always use another gun, and Trudy'd pay for the help" For Alex, there was little to consider: easy physical exertion, target practice, and paid work. With a nod and gesture with his right hand, indicating her to lead, he followed.

Kneeling by his pack, Alex unslung the shotgun. The sheath it rested in was in fact a harness, canvas and leather, simple and strong, with metal rivets at the seams. Slipping his arms through the straps, buckling the assembly at the waist and across the chest, the piece held several holsters and sheathes for a variety of weapons. The Shotgun rested behind the right shoulder, easy reach to draw the weapon. A second holster, on the left, accommodated his new rifle. A large machete hung from a sheath at his waist, on the right, opposite the pistol.

Looking up, Sunny was looking at him, a mix between wariness and fascination "you're a damn walking arsenal" she said, a smirk meant to show a jest. Alex looked away, again wondering what on heaven, earth, or hell he was. Too many questions and no answers. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he leaned against the wall of the saloon.

Concerned, Sunny approached, cautiously "hey, you okay?" Alex looked up to consider this girl before him. She was wise as to the wastes as far as this town went, but more than that…

"No, I'm not okay" he said; beginning to pace back and forth "I wake up, without any idea or reason as to why I was attacked, I seem to have skills so deeply trained they require no conscious thought, and yet I have no idea as to my identity, just a name that holds no meaning or substance" It was unfair to lay out these troubles before Sunny, but his head needed airing, and it felt good. Sunny just stood and listened.

"Well I can't help with yer' past; but so far, you seem to be okay, for a guy" raising an eyebrow, Alex asked a question without giving it voice. Sunny smirked, happy to have gotten him out of the stupor, for now.

"You're helping me with our constant gecko problem, few who come into town are willing to help; fewer are able to without serious money upfront, and some of those get eaten all the same, then I go out and take the money back, seein' as they didn't finish the job" with another smirk, Sunny touched the stock of her beloved rifle, slung over her shoulder in a gecko-leather sheath, tooled and worked by a traveling merchant. Sunny had killed the gecko, and the merchant, also a hunter, had worked the leather into a beautiful piece of art, depicting hills and valleys. The rifle had been…acquired from one of the less fortunate hunters' sent out to eradicate the geckos from the spring.

"The way I figure, anyone who helps out the town is alright, unless they get killed, or demand double pay for crap work. You just offered to help, no bargaining, and you seem to handle a gun fairly well. Point I'm trying for here is, you're a good person" Sunny finished. Alex considered what she said.

"You've only known me for a few hours, and yet you trust me to have your back against geckos" he said. Sunny smiled "thank Cheyenne; if she still growled, you'd already be outta town" at this, Cheyenne barked, looked up at her old friend, then to her new friend. Trotting over, she rubbed her head against his hand. He scratched, she chuffed then returned.

Sunny watched the little act of acceptance, a smile still on her face; scratching behind the dog's ear, she looked at him one final time before turning south for the springs. Following, Alex grabbed the pack, setting it back down inside the saloon beside the gun cabinet.

Before leaving, he took a canteen, stainless steel; blue with a painted thirteen on its front, from inside the pack. Lashing the canteen onto a belt-loop, he followed Sunny and Cheyenne south.

* * *

><p>They had set out at ten o'clock, with Sunny lashing a water pack for Cheyenne, and carrying a small pack of water and ammo for herself. The walk south to the springs was uneventful, but the day was growing steadily warmer. The sun rose into the noon position when the first of the three springs came into sight.<p>

The first warning was from Cheyenne, who growled and crouched, head down ready to spring at anything that might come. Sunny held a fist up, kneeling beside her dog. Alex followed, pulling the rifle from its sheath. The wooden stock and steel barrel felt natural in his hands, familiar. Two figures approached from a distance of forty feet: two tall, blue-grey lizards, big eyes, clawed hands and feet.

The critters had not taken notice of the two humans and dog; all the better for the small group. Kneeling in the dust and dirt, Sunny looked to her canine partner, then to the man. Both were prepared. With hand signs, indicated he take the one on the right, she the left. Squaring shoulders, setting eyes down onto their sights, the two humans took aim. Triggers pulled, springs released, and pins fell.

Two bullets, followed by a flash of hot gasses, flew from the muzzles of the rifles. The rounds flew true and struck the skull of each gecko. No sound or cry, just a slump and buff of dust as the two lizards fell dead. Moving forward, slowly, sweeping the area with rifles at the ready. The two corpses were larger up close, nearly the size of a man, about Sunny's height. Kneeling, Alex examined the two; "we can come back once were done; skin them later, we can sell the hide for a few caps, and Trudy pays for meat". Looking up, he nodded without a word. Shouldering the rifle again, the two proceeded onto the second spring.

Alex had consulted the map function on the PIP-Boy, but Sunny merely scoffed at the tech, "useful, but a crutch if you rely on it too much" Nodding, they came upon the spring. Three geckos occupied the area, but again unaware of their presence. Hand signs, Sunny took one, Alex the other two. He raised an eyebrow, the unasked question being if she was working him for what he was worth. She returned with a smirk, the unspoken answer being of course she was.

He shrugged, setting eyes to the sights. Down the barrel, the three metal pieces aligned onto the intended targets, headshots again. Choosing between the two targets, moving back and forth to judge distance, time needed to realign the sights and reload simultaneously. Alex said nothing, but flexed the left hand fingers, gripped around the stock for stability, to show his readiness.

Targets centered, Sunny and Alex breathed; expelled; again, held, and fired. Two bullets, two kills. A smooth shift onto the second target, right hand pulling the bolt out and re-chambering for the second shot, the forehead of the gecko centered into the sights, already turning to run at the attackers. Trigger descended, pin dropped and bullet flew; the last gecko down, the trio moved onto the final spring.

Rounding the corner of a stand of rocks, they heard a scream from the direction of the spring. Running, Alex and Sunny spied two things separately: Sunny saw the woman, a blond, running; Alex saw the half dozen geckos running, toward them. Neither he nor Sunny had reloaded, sloppy and stupid, no time now.

Sunny fired the last three rounds, too fast; one struck a fatal hit, the second an abdominal shot. The third flew wide. Alex held only two shots in the rifle, with extra rounds in the jacket pocket. Dropping the rifle, he gripped the ten-millimeter; pulling it free was a subconscious action. Raising the pistol to eye-level, centering the nearest gecko, one directly behind the blond, he did not have a clear shot. "DROP" he roared.

The blond saw him, saw the pistol, the strong grip, the resolute stance the man held, and heard the authority behind his voice, one to be obeyed. She dropped to the ground; even had she not, the rock that trip her would have. Alex stood straight, eyes upon the geckos and woman; he saw the woman curl into herself-fear, protection reaction; the geckos, mouths open to bite and tear, five of them. Judging distance, space between each gecko for every shot, and the optimal target upon their bodies; he pulled the trigger.

Once, twice…five times, five bullets, five dead geckos. Time appeared to speed up then, and with it the draining surge of adrenaline withdrawal. Knees buckling, Alex hit the ground; the pistol fell from his grip. Hands shaking, heart racing and mind a slow crawl. Altogether a disturbing reversal to the calm and enhanced sensory input from just a moment ago; the PIP-Boy was beeping again.

Raising the device to view was an effort, as though it weighed a several pounds; the screen displayed a crosshair, spinning and flashing red. A hand touched his shoulder; Alex jerked, to find Sunny at his side, looking at him. Indicating the screen, she read without being requested. She stumbled over some of the words, but sounded them out; as she read, Alex followed, and hearing the sound fixed the word into his mind. He was learning to read.

"Assisted Tactical System, active; power drain seventy-five percent – recharging" Nodding, wondering just what this machine was _truly_ capable of, Alex stood. The tremors abetted and heart rate was semi-normal.

The blond woman regained her feet, looking behind her at the slaughtered geckos. Trembling from adrenaline withdrawal, she approached her rescuers. "Th-thank you; it was so-so close, I…" she didn't finish before tears ran down her face, and a sob escaped her throat. Sunny approached the woman, not much older than herself, "It's okay; you're safe now. If you go to Goodsprings you can rest and recover, if you want"

The blond looked up at Sunny, sniffled and nodded "I don't have much, but please take this". From a satchel across her chest, the blond took two waters and some caps. She shoved both into Sunny's hands before taking a hasty retreat from the carnage. Sunny stowed the water and gave Alex the money.

"What happened? I remember pulling the pistol, but after that it's a blur" he said; Sunny looked up into his eyes, judging, considering. She made some decision as she stepped back to give him space.

"I heard you shoot, but it sounded to me one long single shot, then all five geckos were dead" shaking her head, "I've never heard of or seen someone shoot that fast before. Hell, I thought it was just crap made up in those crime-mags I read when I'm not doing anything else. The characters in those do something's which sound cool, but just impossible" Crossing her arms, she finished in an undertone "guess I was wrong". Nodding, Alex said nothing; he couldn't as his nervous system was still recovering from…whatever the PIP-Boy did.

Breathing returned to closer to normal rate, Alex stared at the six gecko corpses. "Well they're dead now," he said lamely. Sunny looked at him confused "yeah?" Shrugging, he said "didn't you say their valuable?"

That brought a light and a grin onto her face. Without another word, Sunny skipped over to the geckos, all adults-the meat would be just right, thick cuts and juicy; the hides would fetch at least a dozen caps each, more from a traveling merchant or hunter. In addition to the others at the last two springs, this would turn into a fine profit. '_Maybe leave town and become a gecko hunter-save towns, rid the wastes of these pests and make a profit all at the same time_' she thought with a laugh '_not a chance in Hell and Damnation_'.

The skinning of the six geckos took two hours, another two for the other four because Alex dragged one at a time back to the third spring. The sun had descended to the five o'clock position when they finished skinning, then came cutting the tails of the geckos for the meat. The tails were all flesh, blood vessels and cartilage, no bone to speak of. But the thick muscle slowed the cutting, and there was no cutting through the jointed cartilage. Alex solved the issue with a large machete, proceeding to hack through the stubborn appendage.

Dusk fell when the two were done: ten gecko tails, five to a bundle, each lashed together with a length of old rope. The hides, lashed together in a single bundle, secured onto Alex's back.

"Hey" Sunny said, touching his arm, "there's one last thing I could show you, a little wasteland recipe to get ya' goin' if'n ya took a bad hit". Alex nodded, agreeing. Gesturing to follow, she led him down a path to what appeared to be a common campfire, detritus strewn around everywhere.

Pulling some dried flowers and root plants from her pack, "Broc Flower and Zander Root" indicating each respectively. Retrieving a pot, she cut the root and crumbled the flowers. With flint and steel, a fire was lit. The ingredients dried out over the fire; proceeding with crushing them into a paste, the mix dried further into a fine powder. Retrieving a leather bag, Sunny emptied the pot and closed the bag with a drawstring.

Handing Alex the bag, she said "People call it Healing Powder, though all it does is give you a burst of energy" Standing, Sunny dusted off her hands. "Let's get on back, Trudy's prob'ly worried sick we'd been out so late" Looking down at Cheyenne who gave a bark "and Cheyenne just loves the evening stories on the radio; she'd ignore me for a whole day if'n we missed 'em"

Smiling, Alex selected the radio function, choosing the New Vegas station. "GOOOD EVENING, NEW VEGAS and welcome to the Mr. New Vegas show, with everyone's favorite host, Mr. New Vegas" Sunny was amazed to say the least; Cheyenne yipped and ran circles around his legs, bumping the left side with her body.

"Tonight we begin our week long program of one of my favorites in all the world; a story of one man who seeks to right the wrongs of the men, and yet they never see him. Ladies and Gentlemen I give you…The Shadow" New Vegas was replaced with an old soundtrack, and a maniacal cackle followed with an introduction to the program. It was a fine old piece, easy to listen to as the two humans and dog walked, an easy pace and leisurely, back to town.

* * *

><p>The saloon was quiet tonight, filled with its usual patrons; small conversations at some of the tables but most merely ate, paid and left.<p>

These were her people, Trudy thought; despite their being no official office or town law, she was the de facto mayor of Goodsprings, by consent of the people, most she had known since being a little girl. These were more than just neighbors and patrons; they were a sort of big family. If there was some kind of problem, the town solved it together.

Though she could do without Chet's miserly business practices and Pete's squandering away of a huge cache of dynamite, she loved this town and its people. Trudy was just serving up two Brahmin farmers when the front door banged open and heavy booted footsteps were heard.

Around the corner came a tall black man, wearing blue slacks and jacket with a bulky vest; stitched onto the vest was 'NCRCF' and "Williamson". But this name she only knew by one name, and it wasn't that on the vest.

Cobb stalked up length the bar and threw a fist down onto the wooden bar top. "Where's he?" the convict near-shouted, face twisted with anger.

Crossing her arms, she looked the convict straight in the eye; she'd met men such as Cobb before, his kind believed since they had power, what little that may be, they could use it to push around others, anyone they thought to be weak and easily taken advantage of. Trudy always managed to calm this type down, though when Cobb showed up a few days ago he had only gotten angrier since. Now he seemed near on the breaking point of patience, if the man understood the concept at all.

Sunny had tried to intervene once; Cheyenne nearly trounced the man, wanting to tear him apart. Again, Trudy had stopped it with a look and some food for Cobb and his band. "I've told you four times now Cobb, Ringo ain't here, moved on already" she said, though already knowing it wasn't going to work, she'd given the same line the other times.

The convict sneered, baring nasty stained teeth, "I god damn well know Ringo's here; we chased him into the hills, and this town's the only place close enough fer shelter". Trudy merely stood, arms still crossed, bored with this constant exchange of accusation and denial. "Maybe he's hidin' in a cave" she said.

The fist slammed down again, rattling surrounding plates and glasses of patrons "I KNOW DAMN WELL HE AIN'T IN ANY CAVE" Cobb screamed.

* * *

><p>The Mojave was beautiful in the last minutes of light; shadows stretched across the plains, the outline of mountains were a jagged edge of the world rimmed in colors of orange and pink, with the night sky encroaching upon the land. Already the stars were out.<p>

Sunny walked slowly, five tails of gecko strapped to her pack, enjoying this peaceful time of the day; Cheyenne walked on her right, also carrying five tails. Alex carried the ten gecko hides, folded and lashed to his back with an ingenious array of rope and knots, easily distributing the weight across his back, shoulders and hips. Though not heavy for him, he also walked slowly, enjoying the quiet and company.

Goodsprings was in sight just as the night sky was almost completely enveloping the land. The trio passed small buildings, residential and communal homes for the people who made the town home. Nearing the saloon, Cheyenne stopped, listening.

She bolted for the saloon, barking; Sunny took off after the dog, Alex following close behind. They reached the door and could hear shouting from within. Shucking their burdens, Sunny and Alex entered to see the townspeople standing, listening to a one-sided argument.

Rounding the corner, Sunny saw that convict, Cobb, shouting, raving, hitting the bar-top with clenched fists. Reaching for her rifle, a hand stopped her. Turning, it was Alex who held her. Giving her a headshake and a steely look, he released her arm, and watched the man rave, his stance showing a wary calm to the situation. Following his example, she leaned against the bar and watched.

"Give me Ringo by tomorrow afternoon, or my boys and I will come back" the black man stalked down the bar, the townspeople allowing him passage. But he stopped when he spied Sunny. A cruel grin stretched his face, blackened teeth revealed.

"I remember you, sprightly little spitfire, aren't you? Almost sic'd yer dog on me before the old hag said no" leaning against the bar, the convict took in Sunny's body, the grin now lecherous.

"Why don't you tell me where Ringo is, and my boys and I will leave, I promise; I can't guarantee your safety if'n you don't. Damn shame an' waste of such a fine body as yer's" before she could step away, Cobb ran two fingers from her shoulder down to her elbow. She tried to step back, but he grabbed her. No one stepped forward, paralyzed by fear and retribution.

A hand gripped Cobb's forearm, the one holding onto Sunny; Alex stood between the girl and convict. "Let. Her. Go." Three simple words, but they held a dangerous undertone.

Cobb released Sunny, stepping back and around this unknown man with the stupid hat; he didn't notice the weapons the man carried. "You gonna do something then" Alex watched Cobb; Cobb watched Alex. One held anger, beliefs of power not possessed, and arrogance for the man before him. The other was impassive, waiting, watching.

Cobb took a swing at Alex's head, a wild, uncoordinated attack without discipline; Alex caught the right-hand punch with his left. Stiff as a statue, he twisted at the wrist and brought the thumbnail of the left hand into a sensitive place of the hand followed with a pinch of the forearm with the right.

Cobb's face twitched, then grimaced, soon he was panting; falling to his knees, his face was contorted in extreme agony as Alex merely pressed his thumb into the convict's palm while pinching the forearm. Cobb began to scream.

Alex held for another second, and then released the man. Cobb slumped to the ground, cradling his wrist; weak, defeated, pitifully mewling in pain.

Grabbing the sorry excuse of a man by the collar of the armor he wore, Alex carried and dragged him to the door. Throwing it open, he pulled Cobb up to stand on his feet; in his eyes held fear, swiftly masked by rage fueled by pain and indignation.

Before uttering a word, Alex kicked out with his right foot, sending the man flying out of the saloon door to land in the dust of the Mojave soil. Gaining his feet again, Cobb looked back at this man who had insulted him so completely. Gesturing with a finger, the left one, shaking in fury, "I'll be back tomorrow; first I'll kill you, then Ringo" turning, he stalked off southward.

Closing the door, Alex turned and reentered the bar room; the townspeople watched him. Trudy, Sunny and Mitchell watched him; them he especially noticed. "Who's Ringo?" he asked. The question was meant for Trudy, but all the townspeople looked around, whispering to their neighbors, looking at him.

Trudy's answer brought silence once again "he's a caravaneer whose train was attacked by so-called Powder Gangers, convicts escaped from the NCR prison". Alex nodded "where is he?"

This question caused a stir of protest; two groups quickly became apparent from the vocal discussions: those who wished to turn over this man to protect themselves and those who wanted to protect him. Of the two, those who wished to protect the town had the most people, while those who held to protecting Ringo were overwhelmed or converted to the other side.

The argument came to a stop when Mitchell blew a loud whistle "we can't protect this young man, Ringo, but neither can we turn him over to save ourselves; that's foolish and heartless. But our home is in danger brought by Ringo. And now his problems have given us problems. Now let's all move to the next room for more space and discuss what to do".

The townspeople obeyed their doctor, and filed into the next room; Sunny almost followed when Mitchell took her arm, gesturing for Trudy to join them. Among the population of Goodsprings, these three were the most influential, and therefore had created an ad hoc governmental system. The doctor looked at Alex, and gestured for him to join as well.

"Just as I said, handing over Ringo won't solve this issue, but neither does hiding him work. We need something" Mitchell said and Trudy agreed. Alex remained silent but Sunny spoke up.

"We fight; that's our solution" Mitchell rubbed the bridge of his nose and Trudy looked away; Alex reasoned this was an old argument from when this situation had begun.

"If we fight, then people could be hurt or killed, we can't risk that" Trudy said, looking Sunny in the eye as the younger woman grew angry. Mitchell laid a hand on her arm but Sunny jerked away, turning her back with arms crossed. Trudy clasped her hands and breathed out a tired sigh. Together, the three looked lost and dejected. Clearing his throat, Alex spoke.

"Allow the people to voice their opinions, and make judgment after" the three people before him, to say nothing of the dog, looked at Alex, then each other. Agreeing silently, the four, plus canine, entered the room full of gathered, frightened townspeople. Sunny, Trudy and Mitchell took seats which allowed for all to view them; Alex stood by a wall, joined by Cheyenne. Kneeling he scratched the dog's head while untying the burden of gecko tails, forgotten in the excitement of Cobb's threats.

"The situation we find ourselves in is directly threatens Goodsprings-our town, her people and livelihoods. We took into our care a man pursued by outlaws, gave him shelter and food. But his presence now threatens this town as those outlaws have threatened us-" Trudy said.

"Throw em' to the wolves" shouted one man; "Give Ringo up, his problems aren't ours; give em up and they'll leave" said a woman, who held two children. "Give em' Ringo, Save Goodsprings" This started a chant which grew until it was a chorus of raised voices "SAVE GOODSPRINGS; SAVE GOODSPRINGS; SAVE GOODSPRINGS"

Having enough, Alex pursed his lips and let out a shrill, piercing whistle. The chorus died down as the people clapped their hands over their ears to block out the sound. The sound cut out, and the people looked around for the source.

Stepping forward from the shadowed corner, Alex made an intimidating impression as the weapons were still secured onto his body. He looked around him, at the faces of men and women, young and old, all frightened, with substantial reason.

The sight disgusted him.

"You people…you take a man into your care, but when trouble comes you cower before weaklings" strolling between chairs and tables, Alex looked into every pair of eyes to see them watching, listening, some angry, others defeated, a few ashamed.

"These men who threaten you…they are animals, strong when their prey is weak but feeble when it fights back. They will take Ringo if you give him over; they will kill him, but they will not stop, they will not be satisfied" his words carried weight, voice projecting around the room, his stance strong, pace of walk slow, back straight and shoulders set square.

"Once they kill Ringo, they will beset with blood lust sated only by more violence; they will kill your men, rape your women, and slaughter your children with glee. For they are animals, men who have lost their sense of humanity" turning, voice rising impassioned righteousness, Alex took in the people around him, frightened but attentive, drawn in by his speech.

"Do you cower before rabid dogs? Do you lie down in the street, throats exposed to the snapping jaws? Do you tell your wife and children to lie down and die before feral beasts?" now his voice was near-shouting, glaring, hands gesturing and pointing around him. One man, thick bearded, wearing a prospector's outfit, stood.

"Easy fer you to say, you got al dem guns, you know how te' fight" the man said. Alex spun, passionate fervor carrying his words from mind to mouth before fully formed in thought "the ability to fight does not mean one can fight; you must have a will, a reason, a belief to fight. A weapon cannot give purpose to fighting; only what you will lose if you do not fight may give purpose.

Another man stood, also a prospector, "Yer not even from this town" Turning again, faster, Alex now shouted "THIS PLACE IS ALL I KNOW". No one spoke; taking a breath, he continued "I awoke yesterday, without memory of my past. The attack that brought me here took all I remember of my life. As far as I know I have no home, no place to return to and rest. This town is my home, the only I know" the people were silent; the man who'd spoken looked down at his feet, sitting again.

Trudy spoke then "so we fight then?" turning, Alex said "no". Confused murmuring and looks, Alex finished "we fight, together; united in our common cause-to protect our home, our lives, our friends and families". Looking around him, those bearing witness believed the young man stood taller than all of them as he said the last of his words.

"We fight together to show those outlaw bastards that we are not afraid to stand against them; when they arrive tomorrow afternoon, we shall stand united as one, to fight for our right to live free and without fear, to send a message to all that Goodsprings will always defend itself when opposed by tyranny"

A great uproar, applause and shouting followed those words. Raising a fist into the air, pumping up and down, Alex began to shout, which soon became a chant echoed by even the youngest of Goodsprings: "GOODSPRINGS ALWAYS FREE".

The shouting carried south upon the night winds; creatures of the twilight turned to hear the sounds of humans and then continued on their way. South of the town, a camp of convicts, escapees from the New California Republic Correctional Facility, sat around a camp fire, drinking beer and eating from two-hundred year old packages of food, long ago losing their flavor; Cobb, the leader for being the strongest of the group, threw his package of InstaMash into the fire, where it hissed and burned.

Grabbing his beer, the convict climbed a small hill with a vantage point of the nearby town. As Cobb stared off into the distance, he thought he could hear something, chanting maybe. Straining to hear, the convict finally made out the three distinctive words shouted by the townspeople.

As he heard the repeated "Goodsprings Always Free" a chill ran down his spine; fear crept upon him as a reaper approaching to claim his soul in death. The chanting lasted for one minute before quieting, but the fear it instilled within Cobb did not abate. Now, as he stared at the dim lights of the town, so very few pinpricks of light in the vast dark of the wastes, with nothing but the stars to illuminate the land, the small town where he knew Ringo hid, was not a weak town of scavengers, but a daunting fortress of war.

_Author's note:_

_Hello again, Constant Readers; another chapter of From the Night, slow but fun to write, and I hope a fine bit of entertainment._

_For those of you who are wondering, this period in Goodsprings has lasted far longer than I had intended. Goodsprings One was supposed to be the only chapter on this tiny town, but the content and characters to be found became greater than my plans. So it must be broken into three parts. The third shall be the epic conclusion of the Goodsprings saga, but not the last Alex will see of the town and its fine character's._

_Those of you who are wondering, I don't apply a SPECIAL criteria to Alex; he is a capable character from the beginning but he will grow into his ultimate destiny. And he is not learning to read, but reacquiring, slowly, another skill lost from the bullet wound. Another slow, progressional arc of the story which will bring him closer to certain characters, especially one._

_The capabilities of the PIP-Boy are of my own creation obviously, but I always thought the PIP-Boy was too limited in functionality in the games. A tactical targeting system which pauses the game, allowing for precision headshots and yet only shows vital signs and a map showing the way was far too limited. Mine will be within reasonable limits of its physical appearance, but functionally limited as far my imagination can make it without being ridiculous._

_I have a simple criterion for comments and reviews: if you enjoyed my work, by all means write you opinions. Well-thought out critiques are welcome. If you did not care for my work, yet read through the whole thing, and want to disparage my work then please leave. I care not for nay-Sayers or their opinions. _

_For all those wondering why my new releases take such a long time, it is because I am a college student and am very busy. When I go home, I have little inclination to do anything beyond completing my work and then doing something completely mind numbing, such as videogames (speaking of which, Mass Effect III…awesome…the ending…?)_

_While some may see a developing relationship between Alex and Sunny, I assure you it is one-sided, Sunny mainly. She helped him and he is grateful, he enjoys her company as a strong, independent young woman. And Cheyenne is such a good dog! But this is a story involving a relationship between Alex Hugh and Veronica Santangelo; this will not be an immediate-satisfaction relationship, it will be long and drawn out, involving many characters and their own input, and based upon how Alex reacts in the world of Fallout New Vegas. There will also be other-character relationships within chapters as well, so no Alex-Veronica centricity, they are part of a larger piece, as are the other companions._

_Finally, for those who did not read the summary of the story, I own nothing but Alex. I add and expand upon ideas Obsidian and Bethesda created but I do not create new characters or drastically change situations until they are unrecognizable. I work within the framework of the creators, though I push boundaries, and that's what makes this fiction, or any other work, fun: pushing the boundaries of what is already established._

_And so know, I bid you all farewell for now, Constant Readers, _

_Tutor Veritatis_


	4. Goodsprings, 3

October 21, 2281,

Prospector's Saloon, Town of Goodsprings,

Approximately 1900 hrs.

The chanting of 'Goodsprings Always Free' slowly died out, and the gathered people waited, to be led; now conviction ruled the emotions of the people, not fear and uncertainty. Sunny, Trudy and Mitchell looked at each face and saw the same thing over and over. All eyes were turned onto the young man who stood in their midst, tall in stature and seemingly larger than life following his oration.

Alex looked into the faces of everyone assembled, attempting to convey conviction. Turning finally to focus on the three most prominent people, he began to delegate.

"Sunny, gather every weapon and person who knows how to use them outside" nodding, she set off with a dozen people.

"Doc, we need medical supplies and people to use them in the fight" Nodding, Mitchell set off for his house with four people in his wake.

"Trudy, anything that can give us an advantage: traps, explosive, anything-talk to those people and convince them to hand over what they have" agreeing, Trudy approached a few people. Tapping her shoulder, Alex asked "where is Ringo?"

She didn't respond for a pause, "this is as much his fight as ours, and his being here brought the outlaws upon us" Alex said. Nodding, Trudy gave him directions to an unused building in town, at the outer edge, an old gas station. She gave him a series of knocks to show he was friendly.

The building was a ten minute walk outside of town, well passed the furthest occupied house. The station was dilapidated, as were the houses of the town, but in such a way one had to wonder how it stood to this day. Old concrete cracked, flawed, and spawled, exposing rusted rebar. The maintenance bay held rusted bits and pieces of metal.

Approaching the door, Alex rapped three times, then three more, slower, then a final three. The door unlocked after a few seconds and he entered. The interior was dark, but he could sense a person forward and right of where he was standing, two meters away.

"Turn around and put your hands on top of your head" came the man's voice, scared but determined. Complying, for now, Alex placed his hands atop his head, turning his back on the man in shadow. Footsteps approached slowly; reaching for a switch on the PIP-Boy, he activated the light function.

A discovery by accident, the PIP-Boy had two light-emitting features: one the screen, creating a lantern-effect, the other a narrow-beam flashlight. In the darkness of the gas station, the brightened screen was blinding to unaccustomed eyes. The man in shadow stumbled and fell; fortunately instinct and reaction did not force his right index finger to pull the trigger of the three-fifty-seven revolver he held.

Spinning on a boot heel, Alex drew his pistol, toggling the laser. Centering the beam on the man, Ringo he assumed, the two stared at each other unmoving.

"If'n you're here to kill me, get it over with; do it and go, leave this town alone, they have no business in my fight" Ringo said. He'd run long enough…when the caravan was hit, he ran, never looking back, knowing the men and women of his group were being slaughtered. He ran when the outlaws gave chase, over miles of the wasteland, into this little town, whose people gave him food and shelter. And he still ran when those outlaws found him again, Sunny Smiles had filled him in on that Cobb fellow

But now he'd run long enough; if his death meant peace for these good people, so be it. He would see his friends again…he would be with his love again.

Alex held the pistol square upon Ringo, the light from the PIP-Boy casting odd shadows in the corners, and bleaching both of their faces pale. Finally, he toggled the laser off and holstered the gun.

"I'm not here to kill you, but to inform you the town is taking up arms against the outlaws, the…Powder Gangers?" approaching Ringo, still sprawled on the floor, Alex held out his right hand. There was a double meaning behind the gesture.

Ringo looked at the proffered hand, then to the face of the man before him "you're rallying the people…you're fighting the Gangers?" Nodding in acknowledgement, Ringo considered the hand another second, then grabbed around the forearm. Alex pulled Ringo to his feet, nearly off his feet in fact; the two men stood, sizing each other up.

"We're not fighting merely for you; they've threatened retribution if we don't hand you over. The people don't take kindly to threats. This is your fight as well, so fight."

Nodding, Ringo followed. "What's your name?" he asked the tall man; they kept walking for a second before he replied "Alex Hugh", the name rolled off the tongue easily. It felt good to have a name, empty though it felt. "James Ringo" they shook hands and continued back to town.

* * *

><p>2100 hrs.<p>

'_Sunny really has done a fantastic job_' Trudy thought, examining the table of guns before her. She had hoped it wouldn't come to this, had nearly been praying it wouldn't but now that it had, there was little else to choose. Fight or die, that's what Alex had said, basically. She was afraid, terrified as were most people, but the thought of their town in danger, their friends and loved ones quelled fear, overlaid with determination and focus.

The town had come together when Alex had spoken, and now men who'd lived quiet lives were learning, or re-learning how to shoot. After Sunny got every gun in town, Trudy organized a practice range and routine, led by Sunny.

Chet, despite his miserly ways, had 'donated' several boxes of surplus ammo for the impromptu militia. Now all he needed was a reason to give over the leather armor Trudy _knew_ he had in the back of his store. When she gone to talk about it, the bastard stonewalled her, evaded the question, or had outright tried to bargain with her, saying the ammo and armor was an 'investment'.

"Miserly-bastard-piece-of-Brahmin-shit" she swore. A laugh, somewhat forced, came from behind her. "I hope that's not about me, Trudy".

Turning, Mitchell was sitting in one chair, bags, satchels, and plastic med-kits strewn across three tables and several chairs. He was organizing meds for the fight, pain killers and stims mostly but he had a limited supply and the town held too many people for First-Aid.

Sitting down on an unoccupied chair, Trudy held her face in her hands.

"It's Chet; says giving ammo and armor is an investment, he doesn't get that if we lose, he may have no store, he might even be dead as well". Mitchell grunted, sorting out anti-rads from the needles of Med-X and hypodermics of Stim-pacs.

"Who have you talked to?" Mitchell asked; Trudy uncovered her face, clasping her hands and resting her chin on them.

"Talked to Pete about his dynamite; stubborn old man refused at first, but then I said if we don't use it, the Gangers might find it and use it against us. He was still stubborn after that, claiming a person had to know how to use dynamite properly. I said what's there to know: light the fuse, and throw it, and pray it goes far enough away or it doesn't explode in your hand. That finally got him and he dropped off the sticks a while ago"

Mitchell nodded, "what about asking Alex to speak with Chet, that boy has a silver-tongue on 'em I swear. He could convince a rattler' to dance a tango by just talkin' to it" that brought a laugh from Trudy, the image in her imagination too funny to resist a giggle.

"Do you know where he is? I'll go ask him" Trudy said.

"He's out by the benches on the side of the store, cleaning his guns; I think it's a…'meditation' for him" Mitchell said the unfamiliar word slowly, so as not to bite off a syllable. She gave him a questioning look.

"I think it helps him concentrate, a task to occupy his attention to allow his mind to drift and think" Mitchell clarified. Nodding, Trudy rose from her chair, pulling her sweater tight around herself; she left the saloon, around the side to where two benches were setup years prior for communal use. Nobody in town owned them, and a rule was that it was always resupplied and tools were never taken. Everything stayed at the bench, taking anything, especially without permission, was punishable by a fine for locals, or permanently banned from town.

* * *

><p>Alex sat at one of the benches, head down; a light from the wrist computer shone brightly, illuminating a couple of feet around him. He was currently working on the new rifle; upon closer inspection, rust and dust clogged the mechanisms. He'd acquired an old rifle with a broken stock from the general store merchant, a miserly piece of work trying to sell a piece only good for parts for double what it was worth. They'd settled on forty caps.<p>

Sunny, in between gathering guns and training the militia, had spoken to Trudy about the gecko meat and Chet, the general store owner, about the hides. A net total of five hundred caps, four-hundred and fifty she gave to Alex. The monetary system fascinated him, an intricate yet simplified monetary methodology in the form of simple soda bottle caps. Color determined value, as Sunny had explained, holding each cap for him to see.

Black held a value of one; Blue, ten; Green, twenty; Red, fifty; White, one-hundred. She had gone on further to explain two other colors, Silver and Gold, five-hundred and one-thousand respectively. Those were only used by wealthy merchant companies or the big casinos in New Vegas, handling big transactions.

Alex held in a leather pouch eight Red caps, two Greens and one Blue. Sunny had said she would use her cut to buy something for her rifle, and something for Cheyenne if there was any left over.

The _Varmint Rifle_ now held several clean parts for the firing and loading mechanism, and Alex was in the process of oiling the parts and cleaning the barrel when he heard footsteps approaching. Setting the rifle down, he looked to his left and saw Trudy standing close by, looking at him.

Standing from the stool he'd been sitting on, "Good Evening, Miss Trudy" he said, back straight, feet eight inches apart. Trudy laughed at the show of manners, unused to the behavior.

"I've never met a man whose addressed me as 'Miss' before, you're a rare thing in this land Mr. Hugh" she said, a warm smile on her face.

Shifting his feet from the stiff posture, Alex said "if I knew where I'd learnt these manners, I would tell you"

Trudy laughed again, "Oh, you don't need to explain anything to me; besides I enjoy the thought your ma' raised you to be a gentlemen and your pa taught you to stand for what is right and good". "_If only I knew myself_" Alex thought.

"I actually came to ask you a favor" Trudy said; leaning his head to the right, he said nothing.

"The man who owns the general store, Chet; he's a miser who'll try to earn a cap in any way imaginable, and makes every cap in every way he can. Now he's trying to hold out on leather armor that we could use, but he's asking for an 'investment' of one-thousand caps" Shaking her head, she looked up at the man before her.

"I can't convince him, but Mitchell says you have a talent for wordplay; please try to talk some sense into him, otherwise he might try selling to the Powder Gangers if they get through and they'll probably just shoot 'em and take what they want". Nodding, Alex turned back to the bench and rifle, cleaning up and re-stowing the tools and his personal supplies. He returned the weapon repair kit to his pack, inside the saloon just beyond the door, then turned for the general store.

The store was dimly lit, only a lamp in the back, beyond a door, gave any sign of habitation. Most of the goods on display were…not in the best condition. Most of the stuff was junk or miscellaneous items, a couple of weapons and tools, and food, preserved in cartons for two-hundred years.

His footsteps, heavy and noisy attracted the attention of the proprietor, as Alex knew they would; footsteps meant a customer, with money hopefully. Striding over to the man behind a display counter of items, Chet spoke up.

"I'm usually closed at this hour, but with the situation I'm willing to keep the place open to help out in any way I can" the smile on the man's face was so insincere, Alex wondered if he held any concept of goodwill.

"Trudy sent me; she wants you to donate leather armor for the militia" Alex said, cutting through any chance for the man to evade the question.

The smile broadened, but the eyes became cold with greed "ah Trudy, good woman she is, always let me set my own prices. You know she once told me she ran with a merchant group, great story you should ask her about it".

Nodding, Alex said "I will…after you donate the armor for the militia". This time Chet's fake smile dropped, becoming a scowl of contempt for the words.

"Look, I run a good business here; if I start giving things away for free, I'll never hear the end of it. People will line up outside asking for free stuff; I need to make profit, not run a charity. If you want the armor, pay me for it. Its two hundred caps per suit, and you need how many? Last I checked there were about twenty people joining up, maybe more now". Alex kept his annoyance in check, but it was quickly wearing thin.

"But I'm willing to cut a deal, make a personal stake in the militia. You give a down payment of one-thousand caps, I supply the armor, then the militia rents out the suits for…a term of use to be agreed upon by a future date, after which each member either buys the suits full price or returns them. But I won't accept any damaged pieces, those will be purchased by the user immediately or I'll take something in trade" the smile was back, not attempting insincerity but showing openly the nature of the man: the worst kind of miser, a profiteer using a situation to his advantage.

This man Chet sickened Alex; stepping forward, he leaned against the display counter. Chet was a small man, and so Alex towered over him.

Voice venomous, eyes burning with contempt and loathing, "I propose another 'deal': you give the armor, free of charge and without conditions, and you'll be able to keep your store".

Chet was about to retaliate with a verbal assault but Alex, size and voice joined, over rode his complaints without raising his voice above a normal conversational tone.

"You will be able to keep your store because the militia will use the armor and drive the outlaws off; otherwise, the Powder Gangers will overrun the town. They will take everything in your store, then burn it down and either shoot you in the street or throw you into the flames. THERE is your investment-your life and livelihood"

Chet stood as though rooted into his floor, the floor he swept daily; this store was all he had, and he'd do anything to see it remain in business. Realizing this, he nodded without a word.

"The armor is in a locker in back; send over some people to collect" nodding, Alex turned, wanting to leave this place of greed and money-hoarding.

"Hey, hold on a sec" Chet called out. Alex nearly ignored the man, but decided to give him a chance. He turned, the two stared each other down. Alex won out again.

Entering the back room, Chet reappeared with a kit in hand. Handing it to Alex, he explained "this is a weapon modification kit; there are several types for different weapons. This is for a five-point-five-six hunting rifle, I know you have one, saw ya use it today. Maybe you can use this".

Nodding, Alex left the general store, kit under one arm, b-lining for the saloon. A desert wind was picking up, coming from the north. It was cold, and carried a hint of colder days to come very soon. Half-jogging, holding onto his hat, he entered the saloon and shut the door quickly.

The saloon was packed with people, coming and going, in and out, chaos directed and organized by Trudy. Mitchell sat at one of the tables with six others, mostly women, giving instructions on First-Aid. The majority of the new militia was outside, instructed in shooting by Sunny in the same range as she'd shown Alex that morning.

Skirting the edge of the crowded room, he made for an empty booth in the back of the saloon. Settling down, Alex took the rifle from its back-sheath. Laying it down, he opened the mod kit; inside was a scope.

Removing the piece gently, he set elbows atop the table and affixed his right eye to the scope. The image was blurred; adjusting the dials, the image came into focus.

Inspecting the piece closely, Alex found a toggle switch; setting the scope to his eye again, he depressed the button. The dim saloon brightened slightly with a green hue, though not true night-vision.

Setting the scope down, Alex removed the tools within the kit. It was a simple installation, requiring simply attaching an assembly onto the body, built around the bolt-slide.

Tightening a screw, the scope merely slid into place on the assembly secured with another screw. Clearing the tools, replacing them within the kit, Alex vacated his booth. After stowing the kit within his pack, he stepped outside for a test.

Kneeling, he set the stock into his shoulder; resting his cheek onto the body, he peered through the scope. Apparently a built in sensor also activated the feature; darkness became partial daylight. Rocks and scrub brush became visible from darkness.

An idea formed in his mind; grinning at the ideal outcome, Alex sprang to his feet, back into the saloon. He spied Trudy and Mitchell; stating he wanted to speak with them alone with Sunny, he bolted out of the door again to the range.

* * *

><p>2200 hrs.<p>

"Alright, what's got you so worked up now?" Mitchell asked; now only he, Sunny, Trudy and Alex spoke. Sitting at a table, away from the crowd in the saloon, all eyes, even Cheyenne, turned their attention onto the young man.

A smirk played across his face; from where the other three sat, they only saw the twitch of mouth, his eyes hidden by the hat.

"This is what" Alex said, pulling the now scoped hunting rifle from his back, setting it upon the table before him. The three people before him had different reactions.

Trudy, not skittish of guns but always demanding they be kept well away from any drunkards, glared at the weapon and the man who held it, saying nothing but crossing her arms and leaning back in her chair, openly disdainful of a weapon at one of her tables.

Sunny, by contrast, was ecstatic at the modification; she'd toyed with her own earlier and had fallen in love with the scope. Now she and Alex both had the same mod…it made her rather giddy to think about it.

Mitchell raised an eyebrow, considering the weapon. Though used for hunting, it would accomplish the task for a human as well as any critter, the scope adding to that effectiveness. Though why Alex thought the gun was the reason for this discussion, whatever it was about, he would wait to hear.

"I saw that outlaw…" Alex began, Sunny cutting in with "Cobb, you mean". Nodding, he continued

"I saw him walk south; I think I can follow the approximate path and find their camp, scout the area for numbers, weapons. The more information we have on our enemy, the better we can prepare for their attack" finished with his announcement, he sat back to hear their opinions.

Trudy voiced her opinion first "it makes sense, but yer something of our ace in the hole, you and that gadget there. We can send someone else to do this." Alex merely shook his head in disagreement.

"I am the best choice: I know I can track them, find their camp and return, without being caught, with valuable information. I'm volunteering for this; aside from fighting, there is little else I can do." Alex countered. Mitchell and Sunny had little better to argue with, so the plan was set. Sunny tried to volunteer in accompanying him, but he told her she needed to remain; the town needed her more than he did.

In ten minutes Alex had what he thought would be necessary for an extended stay out in the desert wastes. Water canteen, dried meat, and ammo for each gun; supplies held within a canvas satchel slung across his chest and shoulder, he set out southward through the night shrouded desert.

Unsure of his destination, he continued in a southern direction, always with Goodsprings to his back. Rock ledges he dropped from rather than go around; any wasteland creatures were heard and felled by pistol-fire well before they came upon him.

Alex was at the water springs, the moon high in the night sky, when a sound came upon him. It sounded of wings, several pairs of winged creatures. Un-holstering the pistol, he held it to eyelevel, moving slowly forward, ears listening to the smallest sound. The sound of wings came again; rounding a corner into a short canyon, he stopped.

Bugs: Giant bugs-creatures with four large orange wings, big red eyes, black bodies and massive stingers; there flew well over a dozen of the abominations, floating in air. Taking a quiet step, crouching, Alex attempted to move passed the creatures.

Another step, another pause to place his foot again; he was halfway to the other side of the canyon, to the safety of the rocks beyond when a rock his foot came down upon snapped from beneath the boot. The projectile shot out, hit a rock, bounced, and then hit one of the insects on its carapace. Aroused, the creature turned, saw Alex, and hissed; ebony pincers for a mouth dripped with yellow saliva as it snarled at the human.

The hissing insect called the attention of its kin; all turned, all hissed, and all readied their stingers to attack, to puncture, and to kill. The swarm surge forward. Raising the pistol still in his grip, Alex felt a familiar sensation over take him; a slowing of perception and increased heart rate. The PIP-Boy was activating the tactical system. Aiming for the six closest insects, he pulled the trigger, all fatal shots.

But there were at least a dozen, and he was alone; at that moment the tactical awareness ended. Alex fell onto his ass, the increased heart rate draining his physical reserves. The insects swarmed, chittering, pincers wide, salivating.

Alex closed his eyes.

Gunfire rang out, tearing the night silence apart. He could hear the insects as they were decimated: screaming, carapaces tearing, wings halting mid-flutter.

The guns fell silent as did the insects. Opening his eyes, Alex stared, amazed, at the dead creatures. So fearsome in life, and now just more carcasses for the desert to hollow out with dust and sun; the corpses showed both bullet holes and burns from an unknown weapon.

"Cazadores; pesky little stingin' blighters, right pardner'" turning, Alex beheld a man…on a screen, encased in a body of steel and rubber. The machine moved via a single wheel upon a central axis. A radio antenna protruded from the top of the machine, and a speaker emitted the sound of its voice. Rising to his feet, he watched the machine as it approached.

"Well its mighty fine to meet you, pardner'; name's Victor, just your average every day, friendly Securitron mark-one, at yer service" the machine held out a cylindrical, squared three-finger hand. Grasping the cylinder part, the machine, Victor, shook its arm up and down.

"I wanted to tell ya pardner, its dangerous out in the wastes; all sorts of hombres and pests will take a shot at ya-human, robot, bug-type…don't right matter much what it is, they all go fer ya". Still recovering from the drain of the tactical system, Alex didn't say anything for a moment.

"Why did you help me?" he asked; the machine laughed, three oscillating white lines lit with each sound of laughter.

"Well pardner, as I said, I'm your average, friendly Securitron; been in this town for a while now. Don't do much, but I do love to get rid of pesky varmints and bugs, on occasion. Also, I'm one of dem's that help pull you from the ground. Well, I got the Doc and that young lady to help ya out. So I just wanted to make sure your right as rain before'n ya left town for your own road."

"Mind if I ask a question pardner: what in the sam-heell brought'cha out here, at night?" that stupid accent was becoming an annoyance.

"Scouting out those outlaws, getting the town ready for their attack tomorrow" Alex, brushing past the machine, which turned, watching, the cartoon face of the cowboy, cigarette smoking, following, and creating the sense of being stared at.

"Well pardner, you're goin' the wrong way, them hombres camp is over yonder, passed that ridge and down a hill" the machine said, pointing east. Glancing over in the direction indicated, Alex decided a machine had little reason to lie about the outlaws. Setting off in the direction, the machine called to him once again.

"Pardner'" Alex turned; the machine trundled up "I can't help with this here little recon mission ya got, but this might help. Le'me see that do-dad on yer arm there, I got something maybe you cun' use" before he could respond, it held up one hand, and a red light emitted from the 'palm'.

The PIP-Boy rang out, scrawling with numbers. Backpedaling, Alex pulled his pistol, centering the sights upon the screen, reasoning that was the most vulnerable spot on the metal body. The machine held up its arm, in a show of surrender and peace.

"Hold up, pardner, no need for lead; I just gave yer gadget a detector, senses heat, only from livin's and machines, cancels out anythin' else. Keep you alive so ya know what you got around ya". Looking down at the PIP-Boy, Alex saw the compass function, which showed on all screens, but now with a yellow line centered above. He turned, the line moved, and found more lines in various directions.

Nodding, not saying anything, Alex continued up the hill towards the outlaw camp. The clock on the screen read twenty-three thirty hours; the new sensor picked out new contacts, all clustered together. Settling into a crouch, then prone, he moved forward until the lip of the hill dropped down, onto the camp.

Raising the rifle, setting eye to scope, he spied on the outlaws. The camp was lit with a bonfire, rendering the place bright through the low-light optical. Counting eight men and two women, Alex shifted to weapons. Small arms, mostly, on a table, a couple of rifles, machetes, knives…and a lot of dynamite. Six boxes all marked with three letters "TNT"; he couldn't read, not fully, but that was simple enough, and two open boxes full of red sticks helped to identify the explosives.

The outlaws, despite the late hour were awake; a couple of them were asleep, sprawled on the ground, empty bottles all around the apparent reason. Two got into fight, but Cobb stepped in, though his interference did little. Alex gathered they were not entirely loyal, probably just joined for strength of numbers, and Cobb assumed himself as leader.

Disunity; alcohol; pistols as the common weapon, second only to dynamite; too few rifles or bladed weapons in favor of the outlaws; main advantage were the explosives. Those had to be dealt with before morning.

Crawling away from the edge, Alex moved towards a thicket of bushes. Breaking the drying brush at the stem, he lay the brush down as a layer between the ground and his body, a method to keep heat within the body by separating from the cold ground, which would leach away all heat.

Settling down carefully, Alex pulled water and dried meat from the satchel. Chewing the meat worked the jaw, would keep him awake for a period until fatigue set in. Setting his eye back onto the scope, he watched the camp of outlaws, awaiting an opportunity.

* * *

><p>0100 hrs<p>

Sunny lay on her bed, inside of a house shared by herself and Trudy. The barwoman and mayor of Goodsprings had called all the townspeople around the saloon, and told them all to go to bed, to get some sleep before the morning. They would all rise with the dawn and continue their preparations. Most of the people, exhausted from the night of work, fear and apprehension had driven most of the people to work beyond their hardest, had drifted off to bed easily.

Everyone had contributed, men young and old, women with children, even the children bringing water and food to their parents and the militia on the range. Sunny herself had seen to the militia, showing them how to shoot properly, aim properly, and not jerk the trigger.

Mitchell had organized one damn fine group of medics, who knew where to inject a stim or painkiller for rapid transport of the medicine. The medics were comprised mostly of women with children, afraid to leave their children without a parent.

Though some of the women had joined the militia, such as Trudy; that had surprised Sunny, seeing Trudy wearing leather armor, carrying an old rifle over her shoulder, her normally loose hair tied back in a tail. All on the practice range had stared, until she raised her fist into the air with a shout of _For Goodsprings_. She had raised and shouldered that old rifle with the grace of old experience, then picked off targets one after another, not missing a single shot.

Some things still worried Sunny, but she believed they could win. Earlier in the night, an older man with a handle bar moustache had approached her. Didn't give a name, just called himself a Drifter, with a guitar. Said he thought what the town was doing was damn fine and he wanted to help. Said he wasn't much of a fighter, but he did keep a gun on him just in case.

Said gun of the drifter turned out to be a massive revolver; she would have thought it was rather plain-scarred metal body with brown wooden grips-but the sheer size of the thing caused her jaw to drop. A single shot from that could kill a man, if not that, at least put him out of a fight no matter how much adrenaline went into his system.

Sunny had directed the Drifter to Trudy, and she set back to the militia training. What concerned her now, what kept her from sleep, was Alex. She was worried for him, so close to the outlaws. Thoughts of him still plagued her mind, and she couldn't make up her mind about him. She found him attractive, in many ways, but there was still a key piece of him she did not know. That would determine what she felt; until then, however, uncertainty and worry.

Turning over, away from a wall of peeling paint, Sunny reached down for Cheyenne's fur. The soft hair reassured her. The touch woke the dog; raising her head, the two eyed each other.

Sunny smiled and Cheyenne grinned; setting her head on the mattress, the dog looked at her friend. A scratch, then rubbing the furry neck, a slow motion to calm her nerves; sensing the tension within her friend, the dog pulled back, placing her paws on the mattress, but waiting to be allowed.

Sunny moved across the bed, against the wall, and Cheyenne jumped up. Settling down, the dog put her head down. Sunny moved closer, wrapping an arm around her friends' torso and burying her face in the fur. The heart beat was a sweet music, the warm body a comfort, and the love a blanket of protection.

Content and feeling safe, Sunny drifted off to sleep. Cheyenne waited for her friend before slipping into rest herself. The dog had dreams that night; where she and her friend, and the new friend they had made ran across the desert, chasing the horizon.

* * *

><p>0300 hrs<p>

The fire had died out ten minutes ago the outlaws had fallen asleep from drink long before that. Now they sat, hunched over, or lay on their backs in drink-induced sleep, their figures shadows cast by the moon and the dying embers of their bonfire. Nothing stirred in the camp, at least anything that wasn't a person.

Alex lay on his nest of bush, eye still trained on the scope, spying on the camp below. Having been uncertain about the state of the men below, he'd thrown a small rock, which landed square on one's face. The convict flailed, grunted stupidly, and then promptly stopped.

Surmising all the convicts were in similar states of drunken stupor, Alex vacated his perch, descending slowly down the slope towards the camp. It was slow work setting foot inside the camp, moving quietly, despite knowing the men would probably not awaken from even a gunshot, tempting fate would not work in his favor.

Approaching the dynamite he took two crates, and then moved around a ridge and far away from the camp. Drawing the machete, he cut the fuse off each one, shaving off slivers from the head containing the charges to ignite the powder explosives. Returning the crates, he retrieved two more and continued the process. It was tedious and time consuming. As he worked, a thought came to his mind.

'_Why spend so much time at this task? I could use the explosives and kill all of the convicts, rendering Goodsprings safe._' Alex asked himself; from the place in his mind where pieces of memory eschewed, came one vivid image: the face of a man, old, kind, gray hair and white beard. He could hear the man speak '_give a man a fish, you feed him for a day; teach a man to fish, and you feed him for a lifetime_'.

Goodsprings needed the chance to defend itself, the opportunity for all to see they were not defenseless. Perhaps it was a cold thought, that this action could cause deaths in the town. But neither was a safe place to live existing within the wasteland that could not defend itself or was defended. To grow, a baptism of fire was needed.

Unsure whether his conclusion was cold or reasoned beyond comprehension, as though hindsight was granted before the event occurred, Alex continued on his task of disarming the sticks of dynamite, piece by tedious piece. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

><p>0500 hrs<p>

The sun began to rise-merely a faintest pink tinge in the east to show the new day when Alex finished. Hands numb, knees sore from kneeling for hours on end, he rose with the last crate of dynamite in hand to be replaced on the stack of others in the Powder Gangers camp.

Still the convicts with slept bottles of various alcohols all around. Turning away from the camp, Alex began a slow jog back to the town. The morning air felt good on his face, bringing a measure of vitality back into his limbs, despite sleep deprivation urging for rest.

Taking a draw from the canteen and his last bit of meat, Alex found the old paved road that lead north to town. Following the old byway brought the town within view after ten minutes, but it still lay over an hour away. Keeping a steady pace, a fragment of memory came forth-marching, a rhythm to set the brutal pace. Without context, the meaning, time and place escaped him, but the sound was clear and driving.

He reached the town within an hour.

Upon reaching the outskirts of Goodsprings, Alex slowed his pace. Breathing heavily, he walked the rest of the way to the saloon. The town was quiet in the dawn light.

To his left and rear, a dog barked, a familiar sound. Turning, Alex saw Cheyenne running up, Sunny behind her. The girl had shed her armor in the night, now only wearing a shirt and pants with boots from her armor, untied. Her hair was down; it fell past her shoulders as a red frame about her face

The dog reached him, darted left, ran around, stopped, tongue lolling and tail wagging. Reaching down, Alex rubbed Cheyenne's head.

"Good morning, pretty girl" he said, tired from the night spying, his right eye stinging from peering through the scope for so long. He looked up to Sunny, out of her armor, hair down; she looked younger without those trappings, and quite beautiful.

"Good morning Alex, I'm glad yer back" she said. Reflexively, Sunny tucked her hair back, resting the strands atop her ear. A few came loose and rested again upon her shoulder.

Standing, Alex removed his hat with the left hand, approaching Sunny. She looked into his face; saw the prominent red veins, the crinkle at the corner of his eyes as the lids drooped.

"Good Morning Sunny, I'm glad to be back", he said; she smiled, a whole smile. She seemed to be doing that a lot around this tall stranger, despite her reservations she felt no hostility or cruelty from the man.

It was early morning, and always, before breakfast, Sunny was not fully awake, sometimes she did things without thinking. She did so now.

Stepping forward, she hugged Alex about the chest.

Stiffening at the contact on impulse, he relaxed, eventually putting one arm around the slender women's shoulders. Cheyenne panted happily beside them, and around the pair Goodsprings and the greater desert was silent for now.

Finally cogitating what she was doing, and feeling just how close they were, Sunny let go and took a step back. She could feel her warm face, especially in the dawn chill of the land. His hand took her shoulder again, squeezed it gently, reassuring.

"If I knew of the returning reception, I would have run a great deal faster" Alex said, an easy smile upon his face. Looking up with her eyes, she smiled again. He stood straighter, shifting into an authoritative stance.

"Where do we stand on defenses?" he asked.

Crossing her arms, "we got twenty men with rifles-_Varmints_ mostly, a few bolt-action hunters, and a couple of repeaters. Got some dynamite as well; Mitchell's got a crew of medics together, eight women and three old men".

Fidgeting, Sunny said in a voice less confidant than when she had started "I think that's all we can do; now all's left is to wait. I hate waiting"

Alex smirked, and then yawned. Looking up fully, Sunny noticed dark circles beneath his eyes, which were bloodshot nearly to the point of being completely pink. Taking the tall man's hand, she pulled, leading him to the saloon.

"There's a cot inside, you need to get some sleep" he nodded, acquiescing without comment. As they walked, Alex told Sunny of everything he'd seen and done. She listened, nodded, and promised to relay the information to Trudy and the militia.

Upon entering the saloon, Alex saw the guns upon several tables, the ones working were lined up in ordered rows on one, those needing repairs upon another. All showed evidence of poor maintenance and neglect: rusted barrels, shining with oil for the first time in years; wooden stocks, cracked and peeling.

Crates of dynamite, four of them, were stacked in the back of the saloon.

Pointing to the boxes, Alex said "store those somewhere else, outside in a dry place, away from where people traverse". Nodding, Sunny continued to lead.

In a back room of the saloon stood a cot, a simple blanket and pillow, "Trudy comes back here now and again for a nap during the day, let's me take care of the bar for a couple a' hours".

Nodding, Alex removed his gun harness, leather armored-jacket but leaving his pants and boots on. Setting the jacket and his hat down, he slumped onto the cot. It was too short for him, and his legs hung over the bottom-edge at the knees. But it was comfortable, at least compared to the cold night and bushes during the scouting mission.

Eyes growing heavy, he drifted and was soon asleep. Sunny watched him and knew he was out cold: his jaw slackened, fell open slightly, he snored. Remarkably, his face relaxed. Not having seen it before, the difference was striking. In sleep, peace ruled over him.

A smile and Sunny left, Cheyenne at her heels. Right about now Trudy would be waking up, she'd want to her about the disorganization of the Gangers; that would be to their advantage. Before exiting the saloon, she looked back, to where he slept, envisioning that peaceful expression again.

"Good morning, Alex; thank you, for everything", she left. In the back room, Alex stirred, dreaming. But these were not good dreams; the peaceful expression had been replaced by abject fear, expressions of pain, and worse, despair.

In his dreams, he said "no, get away, don't…hurt her". After a moment, his face relaxed again, but not as before. As though hewed from stone, his face showed a blank nature, stoic and cold.

"_Pugio in nocte sum, mors ab vento. Inauditus sum"_ escaped his lips in a whisper

* * *

><p>0700 hrs<p>

Cracking a gecko egg above the oiled skillet, Trudy fried it up quickly. She was making simple meals for breakfast, trying to save time with simplicity as the militia needed to eat then go back out to the range and practice as much as possible before noon.

'Huh, noon, who does that Cobb think he is? Some old-fashion outlaw from the old times, riding into a frightened town to steal from the bank, and the heart of a young woman, and ride off into the sunset'. Despite the dismissive nature of her thoughts, she was worried; these outlaws may be cowards or crazy, as bad as Alex made them sound last night.

That boy's speech had riled up this dusty old town as a Cazadores nest, giving old and young men who'd never fought before some backbone. But it had also frightened many as well, some had said they should all leave town and tie Ringo to a post on the saloon porch. Sunny had seen to them quickly.

Her usual customers were beginning to filter in; she served them fried eggs and water, they would need to be hydrated throughout the day. The saloon held a large supply of fresh water, carried by anything capable of holding water from the springs. Thus an underground artificial reservoir was maintained and, feed by gravity, supplied the saloon.

Mitchell sat down heavily upon his usual seat at the bar; he looked every bit the old man for his age. Many hadn't got much sleep last night, Trudy included, but few were as old as Mitchell, except Easy Pete of course.

The doctor's normally neat mustache was unkempt this morning, hair tousled and light circles beneath his eyes. She could tell he'd already had his morning coffee; it left a powerful smell on 'em, but it didn't seem to have the jump-starting effect as usual.

"Mornin, doc" Trudy said, a smile on her face as she set down a plate and glass. Mitchell poked at his food with a fork and did not respond for a moment.

"Hell of a thing were attempting here" the doctor said, his voice carrying a tone which sounded of an old man.

Weary, Trudy only replied with "yeah, it is", leaving the doctor to his meal, she attended to the early comers, those in the militia coming in for breakfast then immediately leaving for the practice range. She'd join them later, after the last straggler had gone.

For this morning, Trudy told every customer the meals were on the house, and those in the militia would get half-off all future meals once they had turned back the outlaws. She tried to show an air of confidence, but it was difficult.

* * *

><p>Sunny sat atop a rock, just a short way beyond the practice range, taking pot-shots at any target that wandered into her sites: short cacti, old trees, old fences, and a single bloatfly that had wandered in from who knows where. She was using surplus ammo, left over crap Chet had 'loaned' to the militia; the powder in these left over bullets were of inferior quality than the pre-war ones.<p>

They did the job for hunting, but it wouldn't do much against simple leather armor let alone that fancy NCR prison security vest Cobb wore, made of…'Kevlar' she thought that was it called. Spying another bloatfly, Sunny centered the creature in the crosshairs of her new scope and fired. The carapace of the fly split in two and fell to the ground.

She was nervous…no, terrified of the coming hours. According to Alex, these men could be ruthless and cruel. She didn't want to let down the town, didn't want people she cared about die, she…wanted to be held by him, in his strong arms, hear the whisper of his voice saying all would turn out just fine.

Another wasteland creature wandered into the crosshairs, but Sunny took no notice. Setting the rifle into the back-sheath, the barrel guiding the stock snug into the leather rest, then pulling a cord to tighten the cinch, she slid down from the rock onto the hard pack earth of the desert.

Cheyenne looked up at her friend, and whined at the distant look on her face; the dog knew what her friend wanted: the other male two-leg. But his smell didn't say he wanted her, his was a smell of pack mates, ready to defend or chase but not mate. She was sad for her friend.

"I'm scared, girl" Sunny said, kneeling down to look into her faithful, wonderful, beautiful dog's eyes. She remembered the day they had found each other, those geckos, the two Cheyenne had killed before getting slashed by a third.

Sunny had killed the remaining five, but two had gotten close enough where she took a few bites. One bit her arm, painful but that had focused her rage. Left arm still locked in the gecko-bastard's jaw, she rammed the rifle barrel beneath its chin and fired. Brains and skull bits rained out five feet away. The last one bit her right arm, and continued biting, chewing the flesh and bone.

At that point Cheyenne, just a puppy and scrawny from malnourishment, jumped and bit the gecko on its back, teeth sinking into flesh until reaching the spine; the gecko had released Sunny, flailing around, trying to shake the dog off. But Sunny cracked its skull with her rifle stock, hard, finishing with a boot into the softened skull.

That puppy, which she named Cheyenne the next day while in bed recovering, followed her all the way back to Goodsprings and Mitchell's.

The memories, sweet and treasured, brought tears into her eyes; taking the dog into an embrace, Sunny cried into her fur.

Cheyenne placed a paw on her friend's leg, rubbed the side of her face that was to her friend up and down slowly.

Sunny calmed after a few minutes, but she still held onto her best friend. Pulling back, she brought their foreheads together.

This was an old gesture for the two; one Cheyenne had done shortly after they had found each other. The dog had placed her forehead, awkwardly with her muzzle, against Sunny's and it became sort of their secret touch.

Together, in these moments, Sunny pretended she could hear what Cheyenne was thinking. Maybe it was her subconscious telling her what she wanted to hear.

"_We shall tear with teeth and thunder-stick, pack-mate, they will know fear before us, they run away and we shall chase. They bark loud, but they are weak-jawed and limp-footed. They are just more prey to hunt, and we shall hunt_"

Pulling back to look into Cheyenne's eyes, those words in her mind, a moment passed when Sunny believed she saw a huntress rather than her dog. It passed, and she only saw Cheyenne's warm eyes now.

Kissing her muzzle, the woman stood and the dog stood at her right, ready to be directed with a simple gesture: a twitch of the wrist or index finger. The two had long ago worked out a system of orders, given verbally or with hand signals. Useful when hunting, Sunny hoped they would work just as well later today, though she prayed never having to order Cheyenne to attack.

Entering the saloon through the back door, Sunny looked into the room where Alex slept. The tall man hadn't moved an inch since she'd watched him drift off. Walking passed slowly, dog and woman entered the front room.

Stowing her rifle, Sunny rounded the corner to the bar. Most of the customers were out at the range now; the medical team now sat eating breakfast, a quiet group, as their husbands, brothers or sons were in the militia. Taking a seat, Trudy set an egg and a glass of water before her. Nodding in thanks, she dug in.

Cheyenne barked, tail wagging; Trudy gave the dog a look, finally a shrug. Mincing up part of an egg, she set it down in a small tin plate with her water bowl. With a happy bark and tail wag, the dog set to her food.

* * *

><p>0900 hrs<p>

A fist swung into his field of vision, the next moment blue sky and sharp pain, his nose, was all he knew of. A tall man in shadow blocked the sun, head shaking, speaking in words foreign and unknown.

Another man, to the right of the first, grabbed a fist full of hair and dragged him until standing. Weak, shaking, his head would not rise, giving a view of a body, his body.

Skeletal, emaciated, skin hanging upon bone, barely any muscle; something wet ran down his face, onto the nose, and dripped onto the ground. Tears; one of the men seized his head once again, shouting now understandable words.

"There are no weaklings among us" another face, into the withered chest, sent him flying back; hair pulled and tore from the scalp, barely felt through the rest of the pain. The treatments continued from noon until dusk.

In the twilight, two strong arms carried him; broken body, broken spirit. Thrown limp into a cage, padlocked, he moved little throughout the night. Always the same, the treatments, every day…except tonight.

Soft footsteps approached, and a warm hand took his broken one. Barely able to move, eyes swollen, two shadowed figures stood beyond the bars, one kneeling the other standing. The two remained for a time, until the one standing placed a hand upon the other's shoulder. Following, the two left. It was full dark now, and a bowl of something putrid smelling lay nearby.

Seizing the bowl, ignoring the smell of uncooked meat, it vanished with a single mouthful. Morning came, cold and stiff though he was, another beating came and then something new.

A large blade, and an older man in rags; the shadow who gave the blade pointed, gestured with a thumb across the throat. Not understanding, he approached the man. Eyes met, sadness, pity.

The blade was taken away, a slap across the face, the blade returned, the gesture again. Staring back at the man, the moment stretched. A nod, eyes closed, neck exposed. A feral cry followed by a swinging arm, barely lifting the blade.

The body collapsed, head rolled away. Hands slick with red, a strong squeeze of his shoulder; one of the two, not with fists, but a grin, a nod; taking the head, held high, a crowd cheered. Weak, broken, he smiled, _just a while longer_.

The cage again, but no beatings; cooked meat tonight, but the two did not come.

Again the same: blade in hand, cut, no beatings and food, but the two do not come. Blade in hand, don't cut, beating, no food, no water and the two come.

Over and over, again and again; soon there was no hesitation, no thought, just cut, always cut.

* * *

><p>Alex awoke; he was in a cool room in the back of the Prospectors Saloon in Goodsprings. Exhaling, rubbing his eyes, whatever dream had plagued him receded with consciousness.<p>

Sitting up, still rubbing, he yawned again. Whatever had he dreamed of, it left him feeling afraid, cold and…nostalgic. But no details came to mind and so context was missing. No matter, dreams were for those who sleep, and the town needed him awake.

Standing, stretching, bending back until his spine cricked four times, Alex donned his jacket again, leaving it unzipped. Rounding the corner to the saloon, he found an old piece of paper on the counter beside a plate of eggs. It read simply "Alex".

Staring at the note, he could indeed read it, his own name; he began to laugh, a short spat of mad happiness which quelled beneath the rumble of his stomach. Taking the plate, he wolfed down the egg and meat swiftly, not bothering to wait between bites.

Retrieving his hat, guns and harness, he stepped outside onto the porch of the saloon. Two older men, one Easy Pete, the other with a guitar, sat in adjacent chairs. The guitar player stopped to look up.

"Yer' name Alex?" the man said; he wore a hat and duster, both travel bleached, and a weather-aged face looked him up and down.

Nodding, the guitarist stood, "That lil' redhead spitfire-girl with the dog, asked to pass on a message: meet her at the doc's place"

Touching the brim of his hat with thumb and index finger, the guitarist sat back down taking up his instrument again. Down the porch and up the street, Alex strode, a quick pace, through the old white-picket fence, up the hill and to the old door. Rapping three times with his knuckles, he entered the old house.

"Doctor Mitchell, Miss Anderson" Alex called out. A roar of laughter answered his call accompanied with pounding feet; Sunny came around the corner at full speed, arms pumping, face taut in an expression of fiery anger. _Redhead spitfire is correct_ he thought seconds before the girl crashed bodily against him.

Alex caught her at the shoulders and took a step back to absorb the sudden deceleration; Sunny grabbed his collar, and with surprising strength, pulled him down to eye level. Back hunched, she glared into his face, livid, eyes afire and teeth clenched.

"My name is SUNNY! SUNNY! GOT THAT!" concluding to say anything would annoy her further, Alex merely nodded. Shoving him back, the two walked calmly-one stomping her feet in irritation-back to the room where Mitchell and Trudy sat.

The doctor fell into another fit of laughter at the look of anger on her face, which escalated when Sunny extended a stiff middle-finger. Trudy graced the girl with a cold look, which was returned. Rolling her eyes and returning her attention to Mitchell, Alex joined the group in their small circle situated in the sitting room.

Sunny began "as I was saying" with a glare of death at Alex, and a repressed fit of jocularity from the doctor "we have twenty five fighters-myself, Trudy, Alex, Ringo, that guitarist drifter fella who volunteered and twenty others with rifles; a few of those Pete taught how to use dynamite without killing themselves, six total; six medics, thanks to you doc. Now we just need to place them, I guess".

Pulling an old piece of paper from a pocket, Sunny laid out a hand drawn map of the town, well detailed with empty and occupied buildings. The main street ran north to south, the only street of usable condition for travel in the wastes.

"I think they'll come up main street, mainly for the simple fact go off the main road too much anywhere in the wastes and you'll be attacked by all manner of things" Sunny said.

Mitchell grunted "they got firepower and believe the town is scared, that'll make 'em bold and stupid". Leaning forward, he traced a finger down the main street directly behind the town.

"But if their smart enough, and people on the run, scared, sometimes gain a wicked cunning; they might come 'round back. If we assume their plans and get it wrong, we might be settin' up to get our asses shot, literally since we're facing the wrong way" resting back into his seat, Mitchell twisted the hair of his mustache, thinking.

"Well a decision has to be made; I think we shouldn't divide the force we have. We might need as much firepower to get rid of them quickly, otherwise this might turn into a drawn out fight, and we aren't anywhere near skilled for that" having said her piece, Trudy sat back. She hated this, planning the deaths of people, but backed into a corner she would rather fight than die.

"South" Alex said, and the three looked at him. He sat, hat off, leaning forward, considering the map.

"They'll come from the south, no detours, just straight up the road, bold as they come. They think they have us dead to rights, they did have firepower but their main advantage is severely reduced" looking up, Sunny, Trudy and Mitchell were looking at him, a question on each of their lips but waiting for one of the others to ask it.

"During my scouting last night, I had the opportunity to sabotage their dynamite; it's useless now. But they will have others, fewer than the crates they had but still enough to scare people. That's what they'll be count'n on, our fear of them to cow us into submission. They still can, unless we get them first".

"What else about them can you say?" Mitchell asked, curious as to the observances this young man had made of their enemy.

Looking at the doctor, then to the two women, he related what he saw last night. It took two minutes to relate everything, including his efforts with the dynamite which made Sunny laugh in spite of the situation. When he finished, Mitchell was nodding, Trudy smiling, and Sunny jabbed him in the arm, a satisfied smirk on her face

So they made their plans, organizing the militia into three units and placing them into concealed areas on the map. Trudy would act as the commanding officer of the whole, Sunny her second, with Mitchell heading the medics. Alex, though offered a unit of his own, refused and laid out an addition to their standing plan of defense.

"I think we should name the units, make it sort of official these people are a real militia; might give them some confidence" said Sunny, but for the life of her she could think of nothing appropriate to call the three units.

Sunny, Trudy and Mitchell pondered this for some time, Alex abstaining. Finally, Sunny eyes lit with an idea.

"Valor" she said, and as though following an invisible line of thought the three had caught, Trudy and Mitchell voiced their own.

"Victory" said Mitchell.

"Vigilance" said Trudy.

Unbidden, those words stuck in his head. Alex repeated the three, but not as they were said before.

"Fortitudo, Victoria, Vigilantia". The two women and old man looked at Alex, confused, staring as though he had grown a second head or done something out of character.

"What did you say?" Mitchell said, sitting forward; shrugging, Alex sat, hands in his lap, not understanding their confusion.

"Those three words you just said-valor, victory, vigilance-their Latin root words are Fortitudo, Victoria, Vigilantia, respectively" an idea came to him.

Sitting forward, half of a smirk on his face, "if you want to embolden the militia, give them a symbol to aspire toward: Fortitudo, the Spear; Victoria, the Sword; and Vigilantia, the Shield"

Sunny, Trudy and Mitchell still gazed at him with perplexed expression, but Sunny was grinning.

"Awesome thought, but how do you know this stuff?" This brought down the enthusiasm he'd been feeling. His thoughts had rushed off, in excitement, making connections as he followed the path of the groups thinking. Now, realizing again his memory was gone, Alex sank back into the seat.

Sunny watched as Alex, alive with excitement as he spoke, suddenly lose everything; he seemed to diminish somewhat as the thought of his memory struck once again. Now, from being curious and feeling off-guard about him, she wished her mouth had not run off from the common sense most people were born with.

Trying, and failing, to hide her face with her right, Sunny stared between her fingers at Alex. His face was set, stoic, without emotion. Then he gave a sharp nod, as though agreeing to a conversation within, sitting forward once again.

"I believe those three words and the symbology I stated will embolden the militia, it will make them believe they are what their name and their emblem represents. And those three virtues, Valor, Victory and Vigilance will be necessary for today and far longer than we can see"

Nodding slowly, Mitchell agreed, as did Trudy. The group broke and exited the clinic, making for the saloon to physically organize the force, and give what courage they could. Looking up, Alex spied the sun; eyes sheltered beneath the brim of his hat, he guess the sun to be approximately at the eleven o'clock position.

Eyes back on the road, the PIP-boy pinged; looking down now, a large digital clock face confirmed the time; exactly eleven in the morning.

* * *

><p>1150 hrs<p>

Wind blew across the desert, birthing small twisters of dust which spun for some seconds before falling back to the earth.

The sun beat down upon them. Despite the average temperature being cooler in fall than spring or summer, it was still punishing some days. Removing a tattered handkerchief, Cobb mopped his face.

The band of outlaws was a few minutes outside of Goodsprings, they could see the town from the small hill they stood upon. Looking back, Cobb knew it was a fool's errand, but IF they pulled this off they get paid well and get the hell out of this dry pit. Go north and east, to unknown territory, live free, no one to be their masters but themselves.

"Hey, Cobb; we should just go back, beat feet out of the Mojave and get as far the hell away from all's 'em" Cobb groaned. It was that kid again, Nick, or as he called himself Nicky Quick-Finger, not that he was any good with a pistol, or any weapon really, but that his two middle-fingers shot up fast as rattlers, or so the idiot claimed.

Dumbass and little common sense though, Nick was a good kid, just too dumb to so no and always eager to make a lot of caps really quick without working. He was too damn young for this life as well, just eighteen or so the kid thought. Looking at the kid, square in the eye, Cobb repeated himself.

"We do this and we get paid: go in, get Ringo, and leave, don't matta' if'n he dies, just so 'long as we get 'em. Then we leave this shit desert for wherever we want. But go ahead, wander into the desert. Enjoy some comp'ny with a swarm of Cazadores or Deathclaws, be my guest" That shut the boy up. Nick was a tall fella, taller than Cobb, but the latter was stronger, or so the boy thought. Lanky black hair framed a gaunt face, crusted with a thick growth beard of curly hair.

The others of the group, six men and two women, made no comment nor raised their own protests. Cobb looked to his left, where Gwen walked. As with everyone else, she was gaunt with hunger, but whereas Nick couldn't shoot worth a damn, Gwen could. And with her favorite pistol, a nine-mil taken from a guard she'd shanked back in prison, a mark sixty feet off would be dead from a single shot, right between the eyes.

As with Cobb, Gwen had short curly hair and dark skin, but she got mom's fine hazelnut eyes whereas Cobb got brown. Ever since mom had died, dad havin' left before they were born, he'd taken care of Gwen. Or tried to, anyway; he'd done some shady deals which pissed off some big-shot NCR bureaucrat, the bank robbery might have been it or the drugs. Either way, Gwen had been with him throughout, always in a place where he could keep an eye on her.

They were approaching Goodsprings now, walking up a small incline just outside the occupied buildings of the town.

Cresting the hill, the town lay before the group of outlaws. Quiet, nothing but the wind, whispering between buildings, swirling sand and powdered dirt; a rusty creaking could be heard, followed by a crack as a window shutter hit the side of a building. There were no people; as though from an old movie, a tumble weed rolled across the road.

It was then; Nick fell on his ass, dead quiet. Turning Cobb saw why; not dead quiet, just dead. A bullet hole, square in his forehead, wept a single tear of blood, eyes going blank. The crack of the gunshot reached their ears as though from faraway.

* * *

><p>Alex strolled down to the saloon, long strides, almost running. It was nearly time. Shield, Spear and Sword were in position. The townspeople had taken to the names quickly, their 'official' unit call signs being the <em>"fancy names"<em> as one person said, but amongst themselves taking the names of their emblems.

The plan of attack was simple, and with Alex's signal would it begin. Rounding the corner to the back of the saloon stood a ladder. Trudy stood next to it. Divested of her long skirt and sweater, the barwoman now wore one of the leather armors from Chet. Her hair was tied back, tight with a length of thin cord, and her rifle-a fine old repeater-slung over her right shoulder in a back sling similar to Sunny's.

Stopping before the ladder, the two eyed each other. Trudy nodded with a mere "on your call" and left. Ascending the ladder to the roof, the two-hundred plus year-old structure was sturdy and bore his weight. Crossing the expanse, Alex looked down onto the town. At the second highest point in town, he could see the entirety of the small town below, but more importantly down the road going south.

Through the haze off the asphalt and desert hardpan, he spied several figures approaching, still a ways down. Kneeling, Alex took his rifle from its sheath; setting the stock into the shoulder, finger on the trigger guard, he peered through the scope. Ten people, eight men two women.

At the forefront was Cobb _"He must be sweatin' in that vest"_ he thought; on his right was a taller man, paler, longer hair, dark, with a scruffy beard. On his left, a women, same dark skin and short hair as the leader himself; _Brother and Sister_, he thought.

This thought brought a pang of regret and wanting, but without context he was unable to place or explain why it occurred. It did not matter. Settling into a prone position, Alex waited.

The minutes ticked by slowly, the outlaws approached even slower. A light perspiration set beneath his leather armor, of which he ignored. The outlaws were just beyond the town limits, nearing the first of the buildings. They slowed but did not stop. Through the scoped, the chosen target was looking about, fear plain upon his face.

Closer up, the man was in fact a boy, not twenty yet, beard and hair aging him beyond the years. _Damn Shame, boy_. The outlaws stopped, all looking about, set perfectly within the ambush area. Alex pulled the trigger.

The rifle gave a low kick of recoil, muzzle straight as the force was absorbed into his shoulder through the armored jacket. The five-point-five-six round traveled three hundred yards, entering the skull of the young convict, traveling through until it severed the base of the spine. The boy dropped, mercifully the body did not twitch and no sound expelled from the mouth in its death throes.

Time became elastic: the outlaws did not comprehend what had just occurred; as they did, Alex pulled and slid the bolt of the rifle back and forth, chambering a second round, but he did not fire. Rising to his knees, cupping both hands around his mouth as an amplifier, he shouted.

"COBB", the militia was ordered not to attack until Alex gave the signal, a whistle. Until then, they were not to fire, merely to stay in cover, nothing more.

Not waiting for a reply from the outlaw, Alex spoke "we got you dead to rights: two to one, more guns and dynamite, armor. Your outmatched, Cobb; leave now and you go in peace, Goodsprings and Ringo left alone. It's this or die, Cobb, your choice"

Having said his peace, Alex went prone once more, eye to scope, staring down Cobb who, unknowingly, looked directly back. Emotion was difficult to read at this distance, but he held an idea of what the outlaw might be feeling at this moment. Assumptions were cheap, however.

* * *

><p>Nick was dead, they were surrounded, and that tall bastard had given them an ultimatum. Cobb could not decide which angered him the most. Really, none of it did, but getting beaten, again, set his blood on fire. It was always this way, always everyone beat him.<p>

First in California, the small town he'd grown up in, always beaten down. Then with the first gang and the first bust, he was left behind; then a few years later, with the Reds. It was because of them he and Gwen were here in this desert hell, and then Sam Cooke and his big escape plans, leaving no plans except to drift, disorganized and scattered. And now, in this piss hole town, they were all going to die. To hell with that.

Standing, a stick of dynamite in a death grip and a match, Cobb shouted at the top of his lungs "DEATH FIRST". Applying the match to the corner of a house, he scratched the sulfur tip; the match lit. Before able to apply the flame onto the dynamite fuse, a high whistle sounded out; Cobb guessed it came from the roof of the saloon. Smiling, that was where he would chuck the stick, and blow that son of a bitch to hell.

* * *

><p>Sunny heard the shout of 'death first', then the whistle. Taking her rifle firmly in both hands, she sprung from the side of the road.<p>

"FOR GOODSPRINGS" roared Sunny as rifle shots rang out all around, from around buildings, scrub brush, and from her position. It seemed the noise would not stop, until the whistle came again, longer. Sunny lowered her rifle, heart racing.

The outlaws lay upon the ground, torn by rifle shots. None moved.

A hand landed on her shoulder, and Sunny jumped. Alex stood next to her; one minute he was on the roof, now he was here. She didn't say anything, and neither did he. With a mere squeeze of her shoulder, he approached the outlaws.

* * *

><p>Alex had dropped from the roof, onto the porch roof, then onto the desert ground before the saloon. His feet seemingly carried him upon wings to stand next to Sunny. And now, the bodies of the outlaws lay before him.<p>

All were dead, except Cobb. His armor had protected him, barely, and now it was all that held in the man's guts. Standing above him, they made eye contact. His left hand was atop his sister's right.

Cobb's face, from a pained expression, changed to rage. "Damn you" was all the dying man said, pulling a bloodied pistol from the dead grip of his sister. Hand unsteady, the outlaw could barely raise the weapon let alone pull the trigger. Sighing, Alex pulled his ten-millimeter.

"Quiesce in pace; ines in brachiis amicorum" Alex whispered to the dying man. Leveling the pistol, he pulled the trigger. The sound was barely a cough; it was carried away upon the wind.

* * *

><p>Sunny watched the scene before her; Alex ending the life of Cobb without hesitation. The sight sent ice coursing through her blood. The October day was warm, but she was cold, and scared.<p>

She continued to watch as Alex turned away from the corpses, back to the saloon. He spoke to no one on his solitary walk to the old building, not herself, nor Trudy, Ringo, or Mitchell who had emerged from one of the houses on the corner before the saloon, set up as a triage for injured militia. Thankfully none of the Goodsprings militia had been injured in the battle.

Brief though it was this event would have fundamental implications for the future of the town; Sunny knew this, a few others did as well, but none understood the nature of the change, not in this interlude moment between the end of violence and a return to something close to normalcy.

Looking down, Sunny gazed upon the rifle she held. It had been given to her as a gift, from Trudy in fact though the woman hated giving it to her. She'd used it to hunt geckos for the saloons' meals, fought off invasions of insects with it, and she had saved Cheyenne with it. In a way, this rifle had brought the girl and dog together. And now, it was responsible for taking the life of one or more of the outlaws before her.

Unbidden, Sunny cried; not with big retching tears, short breaths and choked wails. No the water and salt merely ran down her face. Maybe she cried for the loss of innocence that comes when another's life is taking by your hand. Maybe she mourned Cobb, seen holding the hand of the women to his right, a feminine version of the man himself, who was not an outlaw in death but a man trying to protect his sister.

Sunny did not know for whom or what she wept for, and she saw looking up that others were tearing up as well, silent as she was. Strong men and weak men, weathered by the wasteland, now baptized in blood, wept freely for their own reasons.

A hand gripped her shoulder; turning, she saw it was not Trudy or Mitchell, nor Alex, who'd entered the saloon moments ago. This man stood around just under six feet, black hair and grey eyes, a thin body but strong to survive in the wastes. His name was Beau Goldman, and they had shared some interests, occasionally more than some, over drinks at the saloon. He was relatively new to Goodsprings, but she enjoyed his company.

They hadn't talked much in the past couple of days, Sunny had been…unavailable to talk much. But now here he was, at the end of this whole situation, unscathed. Her confined emotional state broke down. She stepped closer and hugged him; Beau hugged back.

"It's over, we're safe" he said; she knew this, but it was good to hear him speak. Beau was soft spoken and kept to himself, but when he did speak it held conviction and a straight forward nature, a mindset to cut through into the context of a problem and solve it. He'd been one of the first volunteers for the militia.

The militia began to drift away, Mitchell organized some of them in order to remove the bodies of the dead convicts for burial. Some people went home, others to the saloon, a few merely drifted, not knowing what to do.

Somebody cleared his throat, and Sunny turned, with Beau's hand in her own. It was the Drifter; the guitar was slung over one shoulder, a traveling pack on the other.

"Ma'am" the Drifter said, touching the brim of his large hat "I'll be headin' out now, got a lot of road to cover with plenty of time to do it. I was glad to offer my services, as little as that was, however"

Without waiting for a reply, the Drifter walked south, letting the wind and the road guide him onto wherever it was lay his destiny.

* * *

><p>Inside the saloon, Alex sat with his pack. It was worn, had probably been through many long seasons, been to many places, and carried many things. Now it sat at his feet, gun harness buckled on securely, all items stored and accounted for. As far as he knew, this pack was his life; but what was that life, he wondered. All answers were lost in the void of lost memories.<p>

With a scoff, Alex stood, shoulder strap in hand. With a simple motion, one arm slid snug beneath, followed by the other. A belt hung at his waist, apparently meant to secure around and distribute the weight onto the hips and lower back. Taking in hand the two pieces of cord, a subconscious motion fastened the belt; the pack rested much better with it.

Insuring his hat rested securely atop his head, Alex exited the saloon. The townspeople had, mostly, drifted off following the carnage. There stood small groups around, none seeming to speak. But as he passed by them, they stared, guarded, fearful: a woman, part of the medical team, took a child by the hand and moved around a building. A man, part of the militia, took a woman into his arms, his wife perhaps, and the man glared.

They all stared at him with suspicion now, and fear. He stopped before one person he did wish to speak with.

"Doctor Mitchell, Miss Trudy" he said. They both nodded, and Alex asked a question of Trudy, which had been neglected until now "do you know which way or where my attackers went?"

Trudy looked down at her feet, trying to remember those toughs in the bar. She didn't pay much attention to them, but they certainly made an impression.

"I think they said something about Primm, south of here. Not really much of a town, but I know its got one of your folks' offices in it". Puzzled, Alex nearly asked when Trudy understood his confusion "Mojave Express Courier Service, they have an office in Primm; might be able to find out about that package of yer's"

With a slight smile, a tip of his hat to Trudy, a handshake to Mitchell, Alex began his walk south. Taking a breath of the warm day, he felt good. He was alive, he'd helped a town, and now was on his way toward answers. Without a look back at the town which he would forever consider his place of rebirth, the road snaked out below his boots and he followed its winding trail.

* * *

><p>A second-or is it third, maybe fourth-review of the telemetry transmitted by the satellite. It was data the old man was familiar with, having seen it through test results of simulations, both in virtual reality and live-fire, field tests and actual situations. The only difference now, this was the second time a device had activated, and this particular one happened to be much closer than the last.<p>

Something had occurred on the East coast some time ago-he could not guess if it was days, months or years ago that had happened. Of all the activated machines only one had truly impressed him. A remarkable individual to improve so much. But this machine was here, on the West Coast, in the very wasteland in fact.

For both occasions, the East and the West, he'd woken up and viewed the data, with his own eyes. His physical eyes, though so limiting as they were.

Telemetry scrawled across the screen overhead, regarding stress levels, adrenal levels, heart rate, weapon specs, shots fired, locations and so much more an ordinary person would be unable to follow. But he was not called a genius for naught in the past.

Having reviewed the data enough times, physically anyway, the old man's eyes shut. The machine scanned his brain as the body fell into stasis. The advanced computer systems of the bunker whirred into life, two hundred year old systems still working despite the span of decades.

He opened his eyes again, the true eyes he called them. The room was an old library, furnished with fine carved wooden chairs, tall bookcases, wood floors, heavy rug and large fireplace. A fire was lit there, heat billowed off in a pleasant wave, warming the immediate surrounding area. Standing from the plush chair by the fire, the old man, now turned into a healthy thirty years old, swept across the room.

He wore comfortable evening attire, soft leather shoes, woolen pants, high-thread shirt, neck tied with an ascot bearing the family sigil, and a light house-jacket. Stopping before the large window onto second-story balcony, Robert Edwin House released the catch. Opening the window wide, the old world beyond was nothing of the new world.

Snow fell slowly from the black sky, piling into drifts several feet deep; the balcony was sheltered, and so the white magnificence did not touch the wooden board beneath his feet. From where he stood, House could see the dim lights of Las Vegas sparkling through the white curtain.

Resting his hands upon the smooth surface of the railing, House stared out across the landscape, perfectly rendered by his memories and wishes. This was his world, and all things were under and by his command. A hand was lain upon his shoulder, moving up until it combed through his hair. The long fingers were a delectable comfort.

Turning, grabbing the woman by her waist and pulling her in with a kiss, they only broke after twenty seconds. Hair curled and thick, cascading in waves down her slender neck, a white flower securely held on the left, Jane House looked into her husbands' eyes. Running his thumb across her full red lips, he spoke quietly so as not to disturb the night nor break this moment.

"Soon, all shall be as was planned; it has been a very long time, but it shall come into place. I will not be denied this after such time has already passed" she smiled, and he kissed her again.

* * *

><p>October 22, 2281<p>

Outside the Town of Goodsprings,

1230 hrs

Desert wind blew dust upon his boots, the leather well cared for, flexing with ease as he walked. Removing the canteen with the number thirteen emblazoned upon its front, he took a drink. Cool water ran down his throat, quenching his thirst. The metal container was remarkable, possessing technology capable of making new water every time it was closed.

Stowing the canteen back into its place on the pack, Alex continued on his way south. The sun beat down, not fierce enough to warrant shelter, but so for his forehead to accumulate sweat beneath the oilcloth hat he wore. Raising the PIP-Boy to view, the map showed his present location and destination: Primm, a town indicated south from where he stood.

The map showed a distinctive dividing line, a border of what was once two separate states. Primm was on the other side. By foot, he would be lucky to arrive before the sun set. He did not care for sleeping outside tonight, not for a couple of days anyway until he could come to terms with the wasteland, adapt to the dangers, to become the predator rather than prey.

A sound came from behind him. Turning, Alex could see a bounding form, running at top speed, straight for him. Reaching for his pistol, but not yet drawing it, he waited. The sound came again, a bark now, and a second figure, also running but on two legs.

Relaxing, Alex waited for Sunny and Cheyenne to arrive. The dog came first; reaching down to rub the animals' head, the dog shot around, behind and made circles, barking, tail wagging, big happy dog grin and tongue lolling. Reaching down again, he scratched the sweet spot behind the ears and the skull between the eyes.

Cheyenne's eyes closed at the attention, pressing her head into his hand, wanting more. Looking up, Sunny was within ten feet before she slowed down. She stopped fully about three feet before Alex, out of breath, hands on her knees, gasping. Offering his canteen, she drank gratefully. Returning it after two gulps, she straightened up. Finally catching her breath enough to speak, she gave him a level look, denoting the serious nature of her words.

"Listen, I know people were givin' ya' bad looks in town, but they just got over fightin', and…" she couldn't finish her sentence, embarrassed because she herself had been scared of Alex at that point. But this had to be said, otherwise she'd regret it forever, and if she ever saw him again, Sunny did not believe she could find the courage to do so. It had to be now.

"I just wanted to say: thank you, for everything. What you did, no one will forget it; they'll put aside their fear and remember you as the man who gave them courage to fight back. And I wanted to thank you personally" Finally, she stepped forward, into Alex; wrapping her arms around his neck, she pulled herself up. Her lips met his in a soft kiss; though brief, for the two it was a moment in which time stood still, her arms around his neck, his around her waist.

Breaking the contact, Sunny stepped away. Saying nothing, a real smile on his face, Alex tipped his hat with thumb and forefinger, turning away to continue south.

"Come back, someday, a'right" Sunny called out. Saying nothing, Alex raised his hand in farewell, the smile still on his face.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note:<em>

_Wow, this was…a hard chapter. But it's actually done. I am amazed at its length. I've never written something this long before, except once for a research project, but that was years ago. I enjoyed writing this chapter as it concludes the saga of Goodsprings and its people. And now Alex is set onto his path._

_Why the long length? Why not break it up into smaller chapters? Three reasons: _

_ One, I get annoyed when authors only write one-thousand word chapters. Anything less than five-thousand and I get antsy for the next chapter, I don't get the satisfaction of a good long read whilst I wait for the next chapter. For those of you hardcore subscribers, this is for you._

_ Two, I believed as I started to write this chapter that it needed to be long, to show a semi-believable progression of time in which a small desert town, with little-to-no law enforcement with an untrained populace becomes a somewhat capable militia force, able to defend themselves._

_Three, If I had broken this chapter down, placing my ideas into multiple small pieces, it would have taken longer to write. Picking up the flow of a story after one chapter is complete, for me, is somewhat difficult without consulting the prior. Also, college work does not allow for much personal thinking, It's just study, then the brain is exhausted from reading a lot of material, which makes writing a new chapter additionally difficult. _

_But aside from all of that, once I got to writing this chapter, and it just kept going (random appearance of Energizer Rabbit) I wanted to see if I COULD write a chapter of this size. And I have. _

_I know a lot of you have been wondering as to Alex's origins, and some have made suggestions and questions. Well I would love to tell you all, in great detail, but it would ruin the whole story. I have so much material in mind, including nearly every faction, town, and out-of-the-way hole in the Mojave, and the Downloadable Contents which will play pivotal roles in character creation and background revelation. It will be, without a doubt, a long story, with long-and sometimes very long-chapters._

_For those curious about the Latin of which I have been using: this is actual Latin, not translated, not taken from a scripted source on the public domain, but from my compatriot Gufetto. By either providence or dumb blind luck, this individual contacted me and offered Latin Translation services: I create a phrase or saying, or a whole sentence in English, and Gufetto renders the Latin. And the first translation was, in fact, my pen name, which was horribly mistranslated. Thank You, my friend, if I could meet you in person I would gladly buy you a beverage of your choosing._

_And so, tonight, my Constant Readers, I must say, once again, farewell. It has been a long time coming, but our lad Alex has finally left the nest and is off to find his fortunes and his past, no matter the actions that occurred therein. It may be sometime before the next chapter, I cannot say when, but I know exactly how it will play out._

_And so, my friends, I say goodbye for now,_

_Tutor Veritatis_


	5. High Noon in Primm

October 22, 2281

Interstate Highway 15

1800 hrs

All day, the sun beat down upon the dead landscape, baking the land until not even the hint of moisture in the air remained. His throat parched, having not taking a drink for an hour now as the canteen was nearly empty, Alex continued the pace of his walk. He had made good time, but not good enough. The sun was nearing the mountain tops to the west and Primm still lay some hours away.

Cursing the weight of his pack for slowing him, but too stubborn to lighten it, he continued. The road fell away beneath his boot heels; the leather armor he still wore from yesterday. Sweat had accumulated beneath rendering the material to stick and chaffing, not bad yet. Sweat ran down his brow from beneath the oil-cloth hat, soaking through the old material. How anyone lived in this harsh, punishing, deathly hot environment was a mystery. Summers must be hell.

Raising the PIP-Boy to eye level, as the glare of the sun still made the screen difficult to read, the map showed Primm still twelve miles away. A map marker caught his eye, much closer to his location. Enhancing the image, it appeared to be a building; text showed the name, and with what little he had, Alex attempted to sound out the words.

It was painful, tedious and after five minutes he'd only come up with the first word: Nevada. The name of what was once a state of the old United States of America.

A searing pain shot through his skull, a burning and crushing sensation combined. The episode was over within a second, but his head throbbed afterward. Thirstier than ever though he was, Alex did not dare take the last of the water. He might get sick, and throwing up would take away more fluid. And it was disgusting, especially the lingering aftertaste. Gaining his feet, apparently having fallen to his knees, he continued.

Whatever had happened, it hadn't done any noticeable effect upon his body. Though his mind was another matter; checking the health monitor once more, the screen displayed the same thing as it had in Doctor Mitchell's home office. Sighing, Alex kept walking.

The broken highway kept attempting to reach for the horizon, and Alex continued to walk for it as well, unsure what would be on the other side. Whatever it was, he would have answers, whether from that checkered suit guy, his cronies, or whomever it was necessary until satisfied.

In the distance, through the heat haze still drifting off the desert ground, he spied a building. Thirsty, hungry, still shaken by the episode, Alex ignored the caution which called for a different approach. Walking straight toward the building which soon resolved into an old police station, the only thought which occupied his mind was shelter, food and water. He could not continue on tonight.

Primm was too far away to make the trip before dark and this old building would be his place for the night. He needed sleep, desperately so; the hours before the fight in Goodsprings had just barely been enough to sustain him throughout the ordeal, but now walking toward possible shelter, Alex yawned wide, jaw stretching until his lips pulled back from his teeth.

Alex stopped dead when asphalt blew around his boots, chipped by the impact of a rifle shot, the report reaching his ears within a second. Scanning the surroundings-the old black and white police cars, the small hillocks of the desert, the roof of the station-he saw nothing, heard nothing. Now glancing at the PIP-Boy screen, two contacts registered. Despite the heat of the desert, the sensor did indeed differentiate sources, canceling out the desert.

Raising both hands above his head, Alex approached slowly, step by careful step. He knew someone watched him, knew that person peered through either a scope or was very skilled with iron sights to pick a target from such a distance as he was. The police station grew larger as he approached-a single floor long building, decrepit and rundown just as everything else was.

"I don't intend to fight, I'm just here for shelter, nothing more" no immediate response, and he didn't really expect any. Whoever these people are, they were either scared or lining his head between their sights right now. He would find out within a moment.

"This is our place, you come here, we shot ya dead" came the awaited reply. It didn't sound scared, probably bravado.

"I ain't here to cause trouble" Alex said, arms still raised "just looking for a place to rest until moving on toward Primm is all I want. We can work something out" With his words, two people appeared, two men, both Caucasian, carrying varmint's, pistol holstered across their waists in an Old Western style. They were not scared of him; no, they were, in fact, high on something. Their dilated eyes were a main clue to that conclusion.

The two men approached, rifles up at his chest; both were twitchy, one had a literally twitching index finger on the trigger, the other blinked very fast. Both had stupid smiles on their faces.

"Well, mister, you wanna stay here tonight, we'll need some payment first" said Twitch-Finger, stupid smile breaking into a hyena grin and cackle. His partner joined in. Remaining silent for a time, Alex waited for the two men to continue. His arms were getting tired.

"I'll take 'em boots ya' got on, and tha' hat two" said Twitch-Finger; his partner, Owl Eyes, cackled again "yea', and I'll have me 'em guns ya got, stranger" Not responding immediately, a brief pause, Alex acquiesced. Lowering his arms slowly, kneeling very slowly, he began to unlace his left boot; or pretended to do so, at the very least.

One of the two-he assumed Twitch-Finger but he was unsure until he would look up-took the old hat from his head and stuffed it down on his much smaller skull. Neither of them saw the pistol Alex had drawn.

Looking up, both men had turned away from him, briefly though as they were now just returning their attentions back. The rifles were held unprepared, cross chest and barrels down, finger on the trigger guards. It was, in fact, Owl-Eyes who'd taken his hat rather than Twitch-Finger.

Two shots coughed from the barrel of the old ten-millimeter, entering a thigh of each man, cutting through tissue and muscle. Both men keeled over, landing on their asses and then the backs of their heads. Their rifles fell away from the limp grips. Standing now, Alex surveyed the two.

They did not cry out, dazed as they were from the impact of their skulls on the ground and the drugs coursing through them. Stepping up to Twitch-Finger, Alex stared the man down.

"You wanted my boots, did you" he said, followed by one booted foot into the man's groin. Stepping over to the second man, he knelt, took the hat, getting close to the man's face. He smelled of sweat, alcohol, and filth.

"You wanted my guns, correct" Alex murmured, then using the pistol butt to crack the man across the face. Standing, he finished both with a shot to the heart each. Checking the PIP-Boy, no other contacts were detected within the area, so he entered the old police station.

The dim interior, cooler, was a relief and a burden to him. The only light came through the old windows, which were blackened with grit, dirt, and dried mud from occasional rains. A chittering sound reached his ears.

Activating his light, the source of the sound became clear: bugs, rather large ones but not as geckos. Green carapace, wings and serrated talons, the creatures charged. With their wings, the insect closed the space and began their attack. Serrated talons racked along the leather-plated armor, gouging it and leaving deep, thin tracks. Alex kicked, squashed, and stomped the things to death, not wanting to waste ammo on the creatures.

The head of the last insect, a mantis he realized, split beneath his heel and the room went silent. Stepping away from the front door, Alex slid his pack off. The instantaneous relief of his weightless back was refreshing, returning a measure of stamina to his limbs. He was stiff though, '_muscular atrophy, set while in coma_' spoke the analytical voice in his head. He groaned.

He felt tired, sore and his muscles were beginning to slacken from the days walking. He wouldn't be able to walk effectively within a few minutes. Pistol in hand, Alex entered a door onto a hallway, dark with eight doors, four on each side, most open but a few closed. Switching the light function to narrow beam, Alex whistled. Three doors opened after a span of two seconds.

He was exposed, open for all to see in the hallway and no cover to speak of. But he had the ambush. The three people turned towards his direction, and Alex leveled the bright beam of light down the hallway. The sudden brightness caused two to cover their eyes, the third to turn away, hand out to the light. Wrists steady, hands upon the pistol grip, he fired three shots. The rounds connected with their targets, two dead quickly and the third falling back.

Stepping closer, Alex finished the last. Panting, muscles feeling as though they were squirming beneath his skin, he began to drag the corpses to the front room. The task was quickly done; with those three in the front room, he went outside to the first two men.

Alex stripped the bodies of his enemies for nearly all they were worth, except the various chemical compounds he found on them. Those he crushed beneath his boot, outside so the mixing smells of chemical compounds would be carried away on the wind. Returning to the station, he repeated the task upon the three.

One of the dead, a man about his own physical stature in the chest, but shorter than Alex, also had on leather armor, except this one was reinforced with pauldrons and additional plates; he took the armor, thinking to modify his own armor with the design of this one. The dead insects he brushed outside with his boots. The bodies he piled unceremoniously away.

Dragging his pack on the floor, Alex entered the rear of the police station. A small jail was held there, and his light revealed more of the mantis creatures within. Ignoring the chittering insects, he set the pack down and inspected the other rooms. They were offices once, a break room, radio dispatch. There were makeshift beds on the floors, but he had spied cots in the jail cell. Resigned, he pulled the pistol, switching the laser on. The beam revealed in the dust of the place, a tiny searchlight.

Activating the lantern function of the PIP-Boy, Alex sighted the insects through the cell bars. Their carapaces cracked beneath the bullets, yellow entrails bursting; no death throes, just simple silence. There was no key found on the corpses of the outlaws, and the door was locked. Kneeling, the Void shifting, he eyed the lock. On reflex, his right hand drifted to a concealed pocket on his boot, pulling a metal case from within. The case held several lock-picking tools. Removing two, the cell lock opened in seconds.

The heavy steel door trundled back on dry wheels, steel screeching against steel. The sound brought tears to his eyes. Finally, the sound stopped, blessed silence returning. Breathing a sigh of relief, Alex entered the cell. The cot was old, a stale rank smell hanging around the edges, but it was serviceable. Retrieving the pack, he dragged it into the cell, setting it against the wall to the cot's left.

Removing the armor felt magnificent, though light he felt his body relax. In sweat stained shirt and drawers, Alex set the leathers aside to be cleaned later. Removing the bedroll from the pack, he laid out a several blankets atop the cot: two thick leather covers, tied together to make a single water resistant envelope, with one thin woolen blanket in between. There was another blanket, thicker, but the outside heat and the dry atmosphere of the station rendered that unnecessary.

Bed made, Alex turned his efforts to the armor. The monotonous task of scrubbing with a rag, and then applying oil to the joints, seams and buckles allowed for a respite of thought. The actions, so imbedded they were reflexive rather than memory, was comforting. Whatever he would find in the town, Primm, would be answers to one question or another.

Finishing with the armor, he stood, stretched and ran through a series of stretches, to loosen the muscles from the day of walking in the oppressive heat. Half an hour of bending, flexing, reaching and twisting, and his body felt akin to putty. Eyes were heavy but his stomach protested. Eating a simple meal of dried meat and fruit was enough. Lying down, eyes closing, he was asleep within minutes.

* * *

><p>No dreams assaulted him as he slept; no nightmares came from the Void. The only interruption came when a clanging, chiming, irritating vibration awoke him. Eye lids slid open, taking in the darkness which enveloped the old station. The hallway showed no light, so it must be very early. Tapping the PIP-Boy screen without checking the time, Alex sat up.<p>

Tensing the spine, he pivoted, joints stretching, a few giving out small pops and cracks; a roll of the shoulders and neck, Alex divested himself of the heavy sheets and blanket of the bedroll. The floor was cold, the stale air of the station as well. He didn't want to perform his routine in the old place.

Taking the water canteen, a cloth and change of clothes, Alex exited the station. Stars still shone in the sky, a full moon lighting the land and no sign of first light. The chill morning air assaulted his bared skin, raising goose flesh on his arms and legs.

Setting down his toiletries and clothes, he ran through the routines of stretches and exercises before the morning walk towards Primm. About an hour passed; the last movement complete, he wetted the cloth with water, stripped and washed the sweat away.

A thorough scrubbing done, he dressed and made for his pack. A breakfast of fruit, meat and water, accompanied with some old music, a quiet affair, simple and pleasant enough to be relaxing before the last miles beneath the burning sunshine. Finishing, Alex laid out his leather armor. It stank of sweat from yesterday, both the fight and heat. Another cloth and water to remove the sweat, followed by an application of oil at the seams, buckles and joints; allowing the oil to set would be another thirty or so minutes.

In that time, Alex checked his map: Primm lay south from the station, following the old highway 15; the town straddled the old thoroughfare directly. The intuitive device had lane a marker upon his compass feature, useful for a glance. Having toyed with the machine he'd found several accommodating features, but these seemed…superficial in regards to its function and capability. The tactical system was a testament towards the machine's true features, whatever those may be. Alex believed, in time, just as his memories, the PIP-Boy may reveal its true potential.

The oiled armor was ready for his use. Donning the pieces, Alex attached the pauldrons; the attaching belts fit well onto the armor, securing the pieces. It weighed more, perhaps a pound or two, but was inconsequential. Pack on and secure, canteen and guns within easy reach, day rations in one pocket for a quick bite.

Hat in hand, he stepped out into the morning; the first sliver of sun could be seen to the east, the lightest of colors against the ebony of the desert sky. Taking a breath of air, Alex slid the hat on and began his walk south.

* * *

><p>The miles rolled by, followed by the sun inching into the morning sky. Boots clipped the old asphalt road, sending out bits occasionally into the air. The air was still cold, but the sun was already hot. A swig of water and another step, onward toward the place where answers lay, whatever those may be.<p>

Primm came into view around nine in the morning, judging by the sun. Alex could swear he heard something from that direction, not gunfire or sounds of danger: a metallic sound, ringing, and resounding, despite the distance. It was another thirty minutes, roughly, before he came upon the first sign something was wrong.

A younger man, wearing a brown uniform, a chest plate – brown and scratched – emblazoned with a bear…with two heads. He carried a rifle, but the way in which he carried it gave away his lack of experience. A helmet kept the sun from his eyes, of which were fixed upon Alex. This man was a soldier, obviously new to the role. But he was smart enough not to approach, wary of the newcomer.

Alex walked at an easy pace, relaxed and non-threatening, although he could see the young man take in the small arsenal strapped to the pack.

Raising his right hand, thumb and index finger gripping the hat brim, Alex gave a slight tug up. A simple gesture but communicated non-hostility. The soldier relaxed somewhat. Coming to within six feet, he stopped.

"Good morning" Alex said. "Good morning, sir" this soldier was certainly new, his response hasty. "May I ask your name?"; the soldier replied, stumbling over the words, a hitch in his voice "Q-QUinn, sir, P-Private QUinn, NCR Fifth B-Battalion, First Company".

Nodding, "Private Quinn, Alex Hugh, Courier" Quinn started at the last, reevaluating the tall, armored, heavily armed man before him.

"Then you must be here for the Mojave Express office, in Primm" Quinn said. Alex nodded, waiting for Quinn to continue.

"The office is inside of town, inside of this fence" Quinn chuckled, nervous "it's one of the only real buildings in town, aside from the old hotels. But those outlaws got the place locked up" Alex started at the last.

"Outlaws? Powder Gangers?..." he asked. Quinn was surprised, then nodded "yeah, got all of Primm held hostage, saying they'll blow the whole place up if someone tries anything". Alex thought this over, not an ideal situation but more information may yield an answer.

"Do you know their numbers? Weapons? Where they're holed-up?" Quinn shook his head, taken aback by the sudden stream of questions. "You'll wanna talk to my superior, Lieutenant Hayes; he's in the camp, other side of the highway, at the other end of the fence that side, across from the bridge".

Thanking the young soldier, Alex turned and moved across the cracked highway, then down south again, this time for the small military outpost he could make out. Smoke rose from a cook fire, and three tents were set up around a flagpole bearing the same emblem as Quinn's uniform.

The two-headed bear, atop a green mound and white field with a single red star to one corner; the text of the flag read "New California Republic". Alex smiled, elated that he could read at least those three words.

A spring in his step, Alex made his way toward the small military camp. A few soldiers sat a picnic table, eating, one stood off to the side, reading, and still others sat around, doing nothing. 'Soldiers? These are layabouts!' Alex amended from the talk with Quinn. A few inexperienced boys could be expected, but a platoon! Disgraceful.

Approaching one soldier, who was playing some card game with another, the lad looked up–he could not have been more than eighteen, maybe less–was shocked by the sight of the tall man with armor and guns, then stood.

"This is an NCR camp of the First Company; state your business". Inexperienced and stupid; Alex returned the stare the soldier gave him with a blank face.

"I request to meet with your superior" Alex stated, deciding to get to the point. The young soldier huffed, a cocky smirk on his face.

"The lieutenant doesn't need to meet with some wastelander trash; go on back to the sun and sand where you belong, preferably outside of our camp" as the soldier was speaking, Alex spied an older man step out from one of the tents. Whereas the soldiers wore helmets to keep the sun off, this man wore a green beret atop his head.

"That's enough Private Connor, you're a soldier, not a secretary, and watch what you say to people. I don't wanna write home to your mother that you got killed by shooting your mouth off rather than your gun" some of the soldiers laughed; Connor turned red, but set to his cards again.

Assuming the man in the beret was the one in charge, Alex approached. The men under his command were inexperienced, but Hayes was clearly a veteran.

"I apologize for Private Connor's behavior; it was unbecoming of a soldier and I shall act in accordance" offering his hand, Alex shook "Lieutenant Hayes of First Company. What brings you around these parts?"

"Alex Hugh, Courier. I have some…questions that need answering and I thought the local office of the Express would be the place to find them" Hayes breathed out, removed his beret and wiped away the sweat. Returning the beret, the lieutenant gave him an open look, stating the situation was grim.

"The town is controlled by outlaws now, who claim they've wired every building with explosives. IF that's true, I can't send my boys in there. Even if it isn't true, the outlaws have superior position in the Bison Steve Hotel, which lies across the bridge and down the street. They'd see a squad moving in and open fire"

Alex listened, rendering no comment, merely acquiring information. Raising the PIP-Boy, he pulled up the map, and examined the area of Primm. A fence surrounded the small town, and the only access to the outlaws was over the bridge, facing directly to their position. A squad could not get in.

"What if I went in?" he asked. Hayes had remained silent, examining the computer screen over his shoulder. Now the lieutenant gave him a silent once over, taking in everything…the armor, guns; the stance of the man, even his face. This Alex Hugh had experience, and knew how to survive, and if the weapons were any indication, he was capable.

"you can go in if you want, I won't stop you; you get killed that's your problem, and if a superior asks why such a man is dead in the street, I'll say you were an initial casualty when the outlaws came in. So…your life, your risk: your decision" Alex snorted at the plain way in which Hayes spoke, as though either outcome was nothing to him personally.

"I'll see what I can do" Alex said. Swinging off his pack, he set it down by a brick-walled building, blown out and crumbled into rubble. Removing the gun harness, checking each weapon for ammunition, and the pouches for extra rounds; checks completed, and he shouldered the assembly, affixing and tightening the waist clip. With some rations and water, he made his way to the bridge barricade and looked across.

"May I borrow your binoculars?" he asked the sentry presently guarding the post. Shrugging, the soldier–a woman–gave over the optics. Peering through adjusting to accommodate his eyesight, the field before him was revealed. No apparent presence of hostiles, but there were places to hide in the town, corners to crouch in, and windows to snipe from. Returning the optics to the soldier, with his thanks, Alex removed his scoped rifle from its holster.

"You're going in with a critter killer?" asked the woman soldier. He gave he a small smile, patting the rifle "this 'critter killer' has already put down one outlaw–clean headshot at three hundred yards" she whistled, appreciatively.

"Not bad. Might be good enough for First Recon" she commented. Deciding against asking what was First Recon, Alex scoped the area once more before moving at a crouch across the bridge. Speeding up, he came to a rundown building, just to the left of the bridge. No shots had been fired. Sitting against the wall, he peered around the corner: no activity. Moving to the other side of the wall, he peered again.

Scanning the area before him, he spied what must be the oldest building in town. A large building, brick, with colonnades supporting along an elongated roof, large front doors and tall stairs…'a courthouse' supplied the Void. It was once beautiful, yet time and dust had diminished it. And yet, still, as Alex looked, a large clock face turned to the new hour…and resounded a long tolling, metallic sound, carried upon the wind.

Alex stared at the piece, a real working piece of the old world, preserved in this old town, tracking the passage of minutes and hours for more than two hundred years. Movement on the court steps caught his attention. Peering through the scope, an outlaw came into view, easily distinguishable from the blue prison outfit he wore. Centering, breathing, pulling…

…he fired. The shot was a short crack, and the round took the unfortunate man in the chest, dropping him. Standing, moving, weaving between buildings, Alex relocated. He arrived at a building with a partially destroyed roof and a mostly intact staircase to the second floor, a good position to hunker down for a short while.

Up the stairs and to a window, one pane stained dark with grime, the other broken. Shadows provided cover nearly as effective as a physical object, so long as nobody knew a person lurked within. The window looked down onto the town main street, the north end stopping at the fence, the south at the courthouse. Across was an old hotel, with an attached roller coaster. A form atop the highest elevated drop on the old thrill ride caught his sight, a second outlaw.

Sighting and firing, the outlaw stumbled back and fell from the platform, disappearing within the tangle of wooden supports. The stairs exited out the back, and the front was blocked by debris, while to his left rubble and rebar rendered that exit precarious. Instead, Alex dropped from the second floor to the street. The moment his feet touched pavement, he sprinted towards the base of the rollercoaster.

Taking cover, he scanned with the PIP-Boy for additional hostiles. One pinged, at a distance– perhaps the hotel roof or another part of the rollercoaster, he couldn't tell. The wooden structure rendered the chance of a clear shot impossible, he'd have to move. Stay within the supports, he ran low. Alex bolted from his position, sprinting towards the last contact. No shots were fired as he ran, assuming the last person even realized his presence.

Alex ran until the contact swept behind; looking up, a high point of the roller coaster stretched above. Smirking, he stepped out from beneath the structure, below the outlaw's position. Raising the rifle to shoulder, he whistled. A head appeared over the edge of platform. Setting his eye to the scope, centering the target, the rifle cracked for the third time that day, and the outlaw disappeared.

Satisfied with one more sweep of the PIP-Boy sensor, Alex left the twisting structure of the old rollercoaster, reentering the main street. Looking up to the windows of the old hotel the rollercoaster was attached to, he could see no apparent presence of sentry snipers at the windows.

Easing down from the sneaking and hunting, Alex strolled up the street, to the intersection with the bridge at the other end, turning that way towards one building that stood out from the rest. It was a two-story, simple front, but the large sign overhead proclaimed the structures affiliation: the Primm Mojave Express office.

Testing the door, finding it unlocked, he entered the dim office, to find it empty. Disappointed, he closed the door, wondering where the people could be; run out of town? hiding? or dead? The last seemed the least probable, but it existed, even if just a thought. Deciding to explore, Alex strolled up main street yet again, passed a second hotel, down a few empty blocks until he came upon a couple of ramshackle buildings that looked as though they barely could stand on their own.

Approaching the two structures, Alex smelled something. Faint, but growing stronger the closer he approached one of the buildings. Entering, the smell was palpable, almost overwhelming. Retreating a short distance, he brought out a rag he'd used to wipe his sweaty face. Covering his mouth and nose, he entered again. The place was an office of some kind, with a small family space to the side. Lying upon the bed were two bodies, one man one woman.

The woman had her throat slit, the man a single shot to the head at close range. Both were bloodied and bruised, the woman more so than the man. Death had been a mercy. Disgust made his gorge rise and enmity boiled his blood. This is what would have happened to Goodsprings. Leaving the deceased where they lay, Alex decided to check the hotel, reasoning it could be moderately defended against punitive assaults by the outlaws.

Not attempting to knock, Alex leaned against the old door, slowly so as not to startle a potential ambush. The dim interior showed no immediate signs of gunfire, but he stepped in with caution all the same.

"Hold it there, stranger" coming to a dead stop, he stood. An old man approached, probably around Doc Mitchell's age, dark skinned and gray hair. The man held a .38 pistol, two others held shotguns. Showing no aggression, Alex waited.

"What's your business here, stranger?" spoke the old man. "Alex Hugh, Courier" he replied. The three seemed surprised with that.

"A lot of guns and fine armor for a courier, Mr. Hugh" said the old man, relaxing but not holstering his pistol, neither did his compatriots. Alex shrugged "The Mojave is a dangerous place. I just happen to be adept at surviving".

The old man nodded, and gestured to the other two with him. They stowed their guns, and the old man approached.

"Johnson Nash, proprietor of the Mojave Express office, and Keeper of the Clock" they shook hands. "You maintain that clock in the courthouse?" asked Alex. Nash smiled "just as my father did before me, as his father did before him. The Nash's have been in Primm a long time, longer than the war that burned the world all that long time ago".

Nodding, Alex changed the subject to the immediate situation "What can you tell me about the people who've taken your town" Nash grimaced, anger, sadness and ire competing for dominance upon his face.

"Those damn outlaws came into our town, shot our sheriff, terrorized us with their dynamite, and now hold us all hostage with their threat of blowin' us to kingdom come" Alex nodded again, then began.

"Have you seen any explosives being placed around town?" Nash described efforts to watch the outlaws, but they merely moved around town, seemingly doing nothing. From the time Alex had spent outside hunting, no explosives were apparent, though perhaps hidden.

"How many are you aware of?" at least ten Nash knew of, more probably, all holed up in the Bison Steve hotel across the street. He related that Deputy Beagle, the Sheriff's assistant, might still be alive, might be in the hotel with the outlaws. Nodding once more, Alex turned for the door, but Nash called out.

"Where are you going?" turning, Alex gave the old man a self-assured smirk "going to deal with your problems" he said and exited the old hotel.

* * *

><p>The Bison Steve hotel and casino was as dim and unkempt as the rest of the old town, aside from the courthouse of course. Old furniture, standing vacant of occupants for over two hundred years, smelled of…something, the general scent of what is old and in need of cleaning for the most part. That smell accompanied that of dead men having evacuated their bowels.<p>

Pulling the bolt of the rifle, Alex inserted new bullets into the clip. Having a limited number of clips meant recycling. It was tedious work, firing, ejecting the spent clip, reloading, then replacing the clip. In total, he carried three magazines of ammunition on him he wouldn't use those unless it was an emergency, so the same clip over and over.

The Bison Steve hotel was larger than the one in which the townspeople were sequestered, the Vikki and Vance casino. He'd entered through a side door, and made a careful, slow path through the old building, felling two outlaws now. If there were only ten outlaws, then their numbers were halved by now, the three outside and two here, though he expected Nash's estimation to be off.

Clip reloaded and locked into the firing mechanism, Alex proceeded at a crouch, keeping a wary eye upon the PIP-Boy sensor, but listening with his ears. Relying too much on technology was a death sentence.

The hallways slipped by, dust puffed up from beneath his boots as they landed upon the floor. One puff blew into his face, forcing a sneeze, stifled so as not to draw attention, at least no more than was already by the sound of his rifle. Hallway after hallway, slowly in his hunkered posture, checking the sensor at intervals, he saw nor heard anyone on the hunt.

He came to a darkened room, with shelves half emptied of goods–some two hundred year old food, empty cans, and detritus. Checking the sensor, no heat signatures were within range, so he decided to inspect the room for any salvage. Stowing the rifle, Alex crept into the little shop. As he'd seen outside the room, there was little of interest, some odds and ends but nothing really valuable.

The counter held an old cash register, which miraculously held some bottle caps. His boot hit a wooden box, knocking the bin aside. Alex would have ignored it except for what lay beneath.

A safe, built into the floor; it had an electronic locking system instead of a physical lock and tumbler. Pity, otherwise his theft would have been impossible. Placing the PIP-Boy glove upon the surface of the safe, blue light emitted, spun three times and ceased; the screen showed text, but the words below were the more important.

Selecting the words 'Bypass System' the glove emitted the light once again, only lasting longer. The screen went black with small numbers streaming across the face–up, down, left and right. Larger, steady numbers appeared: 4-1-2-7-7. A passcode, entered over two hundred years ago by a shop proprietor now unknown to the world.

The lock clicked, and the door raised itself out of the frame. Opening the door fully, Alex beheld a small trove of goods: a ledger, faded but legible, which he replaced; stim-packs, which he took. A hard case at the bottom caught his attention, about a foot long and wide, ten inches thick. Two clips held the lid closed. Opening them was difficult, but it relented. Inside was…a pistol.

The weapon was a magnificent work of forged steel, delicate beautiful scroll work upon the body, from the tip of the barrel to the hammer itself; the grip–ivory, with a spade design. Running his fingers upon the glorious piece, Alex felt privileged.

Removing the revolver from its case, it was heavy but well balanced. A second box contained fifty rounds of ammunition. Stowing these in his harness pockets, another piece caught his eye. At this he smirk, removing a handsome leather belt and holster, secured around his waist with a dull silver buckle. Resting upon his right hip, the holster tied onto his leg with a length of leather cord.

Upon the barrel of the revolver shone one word, etched into a polished oval; 'Lucky' read the word. Fitting, in a way–better himself than an outlaw, or someone who would sell it for pleasures; holstering the gun, Alex took in hand his rifle to continue the hunt. The first floor seemed to be clear, now he merely needed a route up to the second floor.

* * *

><p>To spite his initial enthusiasm of having done with these outlaws and the hotel in which they sheltered, Alex found it difficult to find a route not blocked off by debris. Almost every stairwell was closed off by broken walls and ceiling. In the main lobby he found an old elevator which may have still worked but he did not know if he could repair it. Also, an elevator would be the perfect place for an ambush, a small space where the outlaws would cut him down in seconds.<p>

Finally, he located a stairwell not caved-in and made a small pace up. The second floor was as much the same as the first: dust choked, ceiling stained and moldy with sections broken into the corridors. It would be a relief to breathe free air once more, as soon as this was over. Why he didn't just leave the town to its fate, Alex could not say why other than he was merely compelled to do so by some inextricable force to do good.

Turning into a second corridor, the sensor revealed one target, approaching from the right. The corridor was tight, the contact close, and his rifle far too loud. Stowing it upon his back, Alex drew the ten–millimeter from its holster. He would do as he did in the police station the previous night; turning the corner just as the contact came within two yards, he activated the PIP–Boy narrow–beam light.

Caught by surprise, the outlaw stumbled, but had the presence of mind to attempt at defending himself. The pistol in the man's grip went off, twice, both missing Alex by feet. Grimacing, anger rising, he killed the man. Cursing silently, he automatically reached for the rifle.

Alex stopped as he gripped the wood handle of the varmint rifle, then considered. 'narrow corridors, tight corners, rifle meant for distance'; he took instead the shotgun. It was a two-shot, double barrel, twenty gauge–useless at a distance, but loaded with buckshot it would satisfy, though the two–shot limit was discomforting. He shrugged that off, turned off the light and resumed crouching. His knees were burning from the extension of muscles.

Another contact appeared on the sensor, stationary, just around the corner into a room. Alex prepared, legs tense, ready to spring, shotgun gripped tight. Rising to his feet, turning at mid-rise around the corner and bringing the weapon to bear, he readied to fight. But the man before him was not. In fact the man, who wore leather armor and his gray hair long down the back of his neck, was in no way able to fight.

The older man was tied into a chair, his bindings digging into bloodied flesh. Stepping forward, barrel down, Alex pulled the wadded gag from his mouth. The man coughed, spat, and looked at him, wary but grateful.

"Not sure if I should thank you or be afraid you're here to finish the job. Guess that depends on what you're here for, ain't it?" Alex nodded "I'm here for the outlaws".

The man smiled, "then we're two of a kind, I guess. Name's Beagle, Sheriff's Deputy; been in here for a couple days now, don't s'pose ya have anythin' to drink?" Alex nodded. Cutting the deputy free of the bindings at his wrists, arms and legs, Beagle looked at his ruined skin.

From a pocket, Alex removed some fabric to be used as bandages. Wrapping Beagle's wrists, the man grunting as the material pressed against the flesh, he asked question of how many outlaws were in town.

"Fifteen, but I heard shootin' earlier–guess that was yer doing–so, maybe seven now, including their leader, Jackson; watch out for him, he's fast with a pistol" Nodding, Alex finished wrapping and Beagle stood.

"Thanks again, but, listen, I'm a lousy shot, I can't help you, so I'll just get outta yer way" Alex grunted, waving the man off to let him be on his way. Shouldering the shotgun again, he covered the floor from one end of the building to the other, occasionally looting useful items, such as ammo, caps, medicine and water. There was little resistance on this floor from the remaining outlaws, who fell quickly to the single shots of the weapon he carried.

Checking the PIP–Boy sensor once more, no contacts were visible. A clock in the corners stated eleven thirty hrs. Moving through the hotel once again to find a stairwell leading up to the next floor was far easier here than downstairs. The first he came to proved usable. Upon checking the sensor, no immediate contacts were present. Dropping the arm, raising the shotgun once more, Alex listened with ears and watched with eyes.

Around corners and down corridors, the outlaws hid themselves among the old hotel's shadows and dust. Nobody roamed the halls, save for their hunter. It was near the center of the third floor when he heard it. Voices, coming from within a room opened onto by wooden double doors, embossed with the emblem of the hotel. It stood open, slightly, enough to peer through with one eye.

The room was large, with table and a small stage at the other end. Most of the tables within were overturned, facing the door in a manner of a crude barricade. There stood three of these, the largest at the front with six tables, the second held two, the third four–simple, yet it would slow down an opponent coming directly from the front. Alex, however, would not do so.

Leaving the front door, Alex moved to the left, down the hall, and into a smaller door which lead into a room full of old electronic equipment. The racks of old world machines, wires of every shapes, size, and color within imagination, cluttered and choked the room, rendering passage difficult in the armor he wore. He managed by moving sideways through the tangle, until he came to another door, this one locked.

Kneeling, he removed the pick case and began to work the tumblers just so until the lock moved. A silent click, a turn of the door knob, and Alex stood behind the barricade, facing seven remaining. Their backs were turned, pistols and rifles at the ready, trained on the double doors at the far end of the room. A lantern over there illuminated a small area, casting enough light to show any entrance of person into the room; an ambush with a spotlight, a veritable floor show for a shooting gallery.

A cruel smirk creased his lips. Stepping from the doorway, without intention of sneaking, Alex pulled the ten-millimeter once more, shotgun gripped in his left, and began to fire upon the unaware outlaws. 'Seven outlaws, sixteen bullets, two bullets per outlaw with a remainder of two'.

The first two outlaws, the furthest to his left, died immediately before realizing they were under fire. The second two began to turn their heads towards the gunfire, but were cut down before their heads made a half turn. The third saw the man who was shooting, and died thereafter. The last though was not of a man but of a black–clad reaper.

The sixth man, presumably their leader by the armor he wore rather than a prison outfit, was turning to bring his own weapon to bear when two rounds took him in the skull, one severing his spine at the base. The last man had been able to bring his weapon fully around, but died before taking a shot. Alex, nonchalantly, ejected the clip of the pistol and reloaded, just as the bodies began to stink.

Finishing the reload, Alex holstered the pistol and shotgun, looted some from the bodies, and proceeded out of the front doors into the third, making for the stairwell back to the second, and then first floors.

* * *

><p>The gunfire had ceased, all that remained was the smell of powder, and soon the smells of bodies immediately after death.<p>

Shaking, terrified, angry–at himself, at the bastard who did this–Regi stood from the table of the old, grand sized room they had all waited in to get the jump on the guy. He'd seen 'em, tall and wearing black leather and a hat, from a window of the third story. The way he moved across the bridge, and then to cover behind a building, he knew Jackson needed to know.

And something Regi never thought would ever happen did happen: Jackson told him to watch the guy, to be a sentry and report anything the guy did directly back to Jackson. He'd broken into a smile and ran to the window he'd watched from to do as he was told.

Jackson had been an older prisoner at NCRCF, and formed his own gang within the prison; Regi became a new guy, and everyone pushed him around, calling him names but claiming it was to toughen him up for when they rose up in revolt against those two-headed pigs.

Regi listened to everything the older prisoners said, the pseudo leaders of the gang who gathered more prisoners until they had enough men, enough power, and the right 'tools' to pull of their escape and then move to bigger and better things. But it all went to hell when the big guys started to argue, and that turned to outright fistfights in camp.

The group splintered further when smaller gangs began to go their own ways, to do whatever the hell they wanted until they were either recaptured or killed. They would take all the booze and ass they could get before it all ended.

And now it had ended for Jackson, for Bengy and Jimmy, and the rest of them. His friends, is posse. It may be over for them, it may be over for Regi. But so was it over for him, that guy who'd done all of this. He was good, damn good, but two could play an ambush as he did.

Just as the guy had come around the side of the room and killed from behind, Regi would do the same. Follow the guy outside, then unload his pistol until the hammer clicked dry. It would either be him or the guy.

And Regi swore it would be the guy.

* * *

><p>Stepping back into the sunshine of the Mojave, despite the dry nature of the air, it felt good to breathe without two hundred year old dust cloying into his nostrils. Inhaling, then sneezing–a gunshot of an expulsion – Alex saw Deputy Beagle across the way and made for the man.<p>

The moment Beagle spoke is wherein the conversation Alex ceased to listen. The man was egotistical and self–centered, giving undue credit unto himself. Cutting the fool deputy off, he directed the conversation onto a different path.

"Without a sheriff, what will Primm do? Will you take the position" Beagle balked at the mere idea, making excuses and giving long explanations, which all came to the same ending: the man was a coward and incapable of seeing to a town's defense, he was a follower and not a leader. It was a stupid thought the moment it had been uttered, Alex thought.

"But I do know of at least two options for a replacement sheriff" Beagle stated, without continuing. At Alex's urging, the man explained.

"While I was tied up, a couple of them outlaws was talkin' about an inmate at the prison. Said he used to be a sheriff himself, but got into some bad trouble. If he could be released, then we'd have a new man. Or, you could talk to that NCR fella outside a' town, that Hayes might be able to do it. Plenty of California towns have NCR patrols and officers as a pseudo–sheriff".

Beagle's ideas were good, despite him being a coward. He nodded without uttering a word on either idea and made for the Mojave Express. From the door came two people, an old black woman with grey hair, and Nash. The woman clung onto his arm, his wife perhaps. The man was smiling, hand out to shake.

Stopping before the two, Alex shook "thank ya' friend, without ya' we'd still be waitin' on them soldier boys to do their damn job. Some protection they are, unable to control a bunch of convicts and lowlifes" Nash scorned; the woman beside him nudged in the ribs.

"Don't get yer' blood up, Johnson, it ain't good fer yer' heart. Them' outlaws is gone now, so you don't pay 'em anymore mind, ya hear" the woman scolded. Nash breathed, kissed the woman's brow, then turned to Alex once more.

"This here is my wife, Ruby, best thing to happen in all my years on earth" Ruby nudged him again, but with a smile upon her face.

Removing his hat, left hand, Alex shook "a pleasure to meet you ma'am" he said, replacing his hat. Ruby's smile grew, a heart–warming expression.

"I know Jim talked to you about a new sheriff, he was always going on about 'contingencies' and 'safety nets' just in case. But the day only gets warmer and its unwise to travel in the heat. Come inside for a res'pit, and take care of yer' business with our little town tomorrow" Ruby stated, in a manner of which there only existed acceptance, and refusal was forbidden. Nodding, Alex made to follow.

But his attention was drawn to the Bison Steve once more as the front doors crashed open. A young man stepped outside, dressed in blue from head to toe with 'NCRCF' stitched upon his shirt. He carried a nine-millimeter pistol in one hand, and murder in his eyes. He screamed at Alex.

* * *

><p>Down the stairs, passed the bodies of his fellow inmates, some who he'd called friends at one point. They were all dead, and so was he, but he would get blood, oh yes he would.<p>

Regi, who turned seventeen just a couple of months ago, scooted on his butt down the debris strewn staircase; he wanted to reach the first floor before the other, the one who'd killed the whole gang. Taking the blocked stairs–or as blocked unless you knew how to climb down – was more dangerous, but he was careful.

From the third unto the second floor, he moved slowly to ensure the precarious, haphazard way in which the debris was strewn would not give out under his feet. At least he hoped it wouldn't. Reaching the floor, his mind wandered again.

He shouldn't be here, Regi thought for the umpteenth time now, he should be home and safe, not in some piss hole in the middle of a damned desert, but no, he had to be taught a lesson. His father raised him to be respectful and follow the rules, but at fourteen, when the hormones really hit, 'following the rules' without a damn good reason didn't really register in his mind.

So Regi made his first theft, a BB gun from a kid who lived close by. The attempt was unsuccessful, and got him a 'wrapping on the knuckles' as his father, the town sheriff no less, called it. It involved a belt, a thick Brahmin hide piece, across his back. It stung for days, but enraged him as well, rather than temper the disobedience that was building.

The next theft was more severe, just to spite his father: a bag full of fruit, from the market square in town. He had to return the bag, half full by the time he'd been caught, work for the grower, and his father laid on double with the belt.

Just as an old saying he'd heard from the old man went, 'three stirkes, you're out', had landed him in bona fide jail: stealing a Brahmin calf. His bastard father told him he'd been giving his mother enough grief, and the belt obviously didn't work, so he sent Regi the prison, to show him what happened to 'real criminals'. If only his father had known, those real criminals had been the best people he'd ever met.

And now it was over, they were all dead. He blamed the man in leather armor, blamed Jackson for sending him away, and ultimately blamed his father, the arrogant bastard. Whatever happened between himself and the man, that holier-than-thou bringer of 'justice', would happen…and he would finally show just how much he did not need his father, or mother, or their stupid laws or anything but his quick hands, a gun, and enough money to rule all the gang.

He'd show them, show them all just right that he was a man and could take care of himself. He didn't need anybody. Damn straight, nobody whatsoever.

Arriving at the first floor, Regi spied one body on the floor. He knelt by it; tears would have fallen but were stemmed by anger, brought forth with his inner rant and tempered by a target for all of his frustrations over years of continuous brow–beating.

The body before him was once Jessy, who was as a brother to him: shared a similar upbringing, even same type of father, who thought it was effective enough to beat the meaning of laws into him. Still gripped in hand was a gun, a pistol. It was hard to pull the fingers off the weapon, but it came loose after pulling and working the digits until loosened.

Gun in hand, Regi made for the double doors that fronted the old building. Pushing through, the bright sunlight blinded for a moment. When it cleared, he spied the leather clad man, and screamed until his throat was sore.

* * *

><p>Time became elastic; seconds turned into minutes as the young man anchored Alex onto the ground with murder and rage burning in his eyes, a basest of hatreds quelled by human restraint, now released in this boy who stood, weapon drawn with full intent to use.<p>

'_Chime_'

The clock tower tolled its single mournful note across the barren desert, tracking the passage of time long after humanity should have destroyed itself. Alex moved, beginning a motion that, he dearly hoped, would work.

'_Chime'_

The young outlaw began to raise his right hand, stiff at the shoulder and elbow, perfectly straight to need only one shot in order to finish the task.

'_Chime_'

Alex was moving, feet beginning to pivot, hip swinging right to spin. It was excruciating how long time felt as he waited for the young man to make his attempt.

'_Chime_'

Barrel halfway to full level with its intended target, the arm gripping the pistol swung upward, all while the young man held focus solely on Alex, bearing no mind towards his strange jerking and twisting. It did not matter, only the single bullet in the pistol chamber mattered, and its delivery into the chest the man clad in leather.

'_Chime_'

That old clock resounded, carried upon wind into silence, a sound heard by millions in years past, across the space between places and time without count. It was an old sound, meant, at times long past, for more than just tracking the passage of minutes.

'_Chime_'

Tolled the old bell, just as thousands before it did when death came upon those within hearing of its tone, heard differently every day; for life, it tolled for the rise of the sun; for merriment, it tolled for the people to have joy; and in death, it tolled for the people to note the passage of another.

'_Chime_'

Rang out the old bell, as the unknown boy called Regi brought his pistol to bear upon this hated man, seeing all the faces of those who had pushed him toward this moment, all were embodied within the man before him now, and all would know his revenge.

'_Chime_'

Alex was turning, pivoting, moving away from the projected path of the bullet, but knew this moment to be a faint hope. He thought of all he needed still, too much to allow a single round to ruin everything, fate could not be that cruel to deny him answers before his death.

'_Chime'_

But a faint hope it was, as Alex saw down the barrel of the gun, and knew that death was his, the harbinger a single young man, a boy, whom he held no malice towards nor knew his name. The young outlaw fired.

'_Chime_'

The firing pin struck the copper head of the bullet primer, igniting a chemical combination which jumped into the powder chamber. The expanding gases forced the bullets' ejection from its body, a simple piece of metal which held it for over two centuries. The bullet spun within the rifled barrel of the pistol, spinning faster, cutting air as it left the weapon and hand which held it.

'_Chime_'

Alex spun on the balls of his feet, waist turning, adding to the spin. Alex heard, rather than saw, the bullet as it passed across his chest, the slip stream catching onto one strap of his armor causing the leather to move an imperceptible pico–meter to the left. His boots scraped against old asphalt as the turn finished. His hand dipped and pulled. It was a flash, a blur, anyone in witness would swear it merely appeared in his hand at the end of his impossible dodge.

Level, shoulder relaxed, elbow and forearm tensed to absorb the kick of the revolver, wrist steady upon the ivory grip, it shone in the sunlight, a glint from the embossed silver plate on which bore the name '_Lucky_'. Alex pulled the trigger.

The young man felt a punch into his chest and then nothing. He flew back and hit the ground with an audible, limp, thud. A single tolling note acknowledged his passing from life into oblivion.

'_Chime_'

* * *

><p><em>Author's note;<em>

_Hello again, Constant Readers,_

_I have completed my finals and have finally completed this chapter, a hurdle I consider greater than the Goodsprings saga as Alex now moves away from familiar territory. _

_I have many ideas, a lot of them for this story, many for others. But I shall fully dedicate all my attentions to this one, rather than multiple avenues of thought. TOO much to think about, and I prefer a linear progression of work: first will come From the Night, followed by stories of other favorite characters from other riveting stories. To give you some idea, Bioware will be a major feature in at least two genres._

_I am also considering Crossovers, but will refrain from such unless asked for. To say they are 'interesting' is my own opinion, but they are. I shall let you decide, otherwise I shall stay within one genre or story._

_And so I bid you farewell once more._

_Tutor Veritatis_


	6. Men of Law, Law of Men

October 24, 2281

Outside of New California Republic Correctional Facility

0500 hrs

The low–light vision scope cast the world in green, and the crosshairs were centered upon the stationary target atop one of six guard towers. The figure had not moved for two hours at this point, and so had the other sentries within their posts. It could only be assumed the men had fallen asleep at their positions. Understandable as no shifts had occurred throughout the night.

Alex himself lay prone but well awake, a gift thanks to the hospitality of Mr. and Mrs. Nash. He had fully taken advantage of their charity, and they were glad to have him, out of more than just gratitude.

The moment he'd set down his pack, the real work had begun: getting Primm back into a semi-livable state. Apparently strong, healthy, young men were something of a commodity in the tiny town.

Johnson Nash had asked for his help on the clock tower: Nash had inspected the mechanics, applied oil where needed, and had Alex do the heavier labors. This took a total of two hours, followed immediately by a request of assistance with building a simple shack of scrap metal, filling the thing with the bodies of the outlaws, dousing the whole in some old fuel, and setting the place alight.

An easterly wind carried the smells out of town, and attracted some critters which the townspeople shot for their stores of meat.

A short break offered Alex to ask of Johnson the questions burning in him since arriving, interrupted repeatedly by one situation after another. He asked of the package he was to deliver, but the answers were…unusual to say the least.

Five additional couriers were given similar packages of odd items: a deck of cards; a chess piece; a pair of dice; a white marble; and a pocket watch. All deliveries had arrived safely. Apparently another courier could have taken the job, but declined and left it specifically for Alex. All of this was hired and arranged by a robot, with a cowboy face on a screen.

Despite not going to the prison, the day was enough for Alex to have a lot to think about. A lot to ask Beagle about, as Johnson indicated the man might have some information regarding his assailants.

The sun beat upon the land, and Alex sweated rivers. He was exhausted at the end of the day.

In the evening, the town held a funeral for the sheriff and his wife. Alex stood with them, dressed in a clean shirt and pants, hat in hand, while another man gave a eulogy. It was a short occasion, and a pyre was lit for the deceased–a pile of scrap wood stacked vertically, the bodies wrapped in bloodied bed sheets. The people stood a vigil as the fire consumed flesh to ash and bones to dust. When the fire had burned down to red coals, a wind came up, lifting the remains into the sky.

The people returned to their homes, many living in the Vikki and Vance now. It was a quiet group that returned, mourning the death of two of their own, worry of the future without a protector. Alex and the Nash's walked, silent, back to the Mojave Express office, wherein the Nash's had residence on the second floor. The first held a main office and kitchen for the elderly couple, in which wafted the smells of magnificent cooking, courtesy of Ruby.

From the smells, Alex figured she was about equal to Trudy. They ate of simple, hearty affair for supper. Afterward, the three retired to the second floor; Ruby made up a makeshift bed of the old couch, to which he added the blanket from his bedroll. It wasn't the most comfortable of sleeping arrangements, but it worked.

The following morning, Alex helped himself to a simple breakfast of fruits, vegetables and dried meat. Waiting for an hour before performing his morning routine and cleaning allowed him time to consider the course of actions he would be taking on behalf of this out of the way town, which no one beyond the gates seemed to have cared much about until outlaws came in, disturbing the peace and setting someone's jowls aquiver enough to send poorly trained boys and one veteran to clean up.

Shaking his head, Alex cleaned himself, now using the kitchen sink of the Express office to wet the cloth. Arming himself, he considered the destination: New California Republic Correctional Facility, a nice name for a place where societal degenerates, castaways, and unwanted elements of all creed and color were to be sent by default.

Guns holstered, armor buckled, ammo stowed, water secured, and the hat fastened atop his head, Alex departed the Mojave Express building before anyone else was awake, even the soldiers beyond the bridge. The world slept on, with the exception of himself and Private Quinn.

The lad stood, stiff, but the tilt of his helmet, seen by the cast of the still risen moon, gave away his drowsiness. Not wanting to startle the boy, Alex twisted his heel in the dust and chipped black rocks of broken asphalt from the road. The grating sound shocked the boy awake, rifle up, panning from left to right, scanning for targets. This young, hardly trained soldier possessed quick reflexes, and though unused to the weapon he carried, Quinn understood how to use it.

Alex smiled at that assessment, thinking, perhaps, this boy could survive the soldiers' life, if he fought and adapted. Otherwise, death would take him.

Approaching Quinn, the boy turned and saw him. "Good morning, sir" he greeted, with an involuntary salute. The lad lowered his arm, embarrassed. Alex laughed.

"Good morning, Private Quinn; are you well?" the young man seemed surprised at the answer, hesitating with an answer.

"F-Fine, sir, nothin' unusual; I heard the fightin' in town the other day, and them fires. I guess you cleared out the town" nodding, Alex watched the young man. Though shrouded in darkness, the boy's tone was awestruck.

"The other guy's thought you had no chance 'gainst them outlaws, Connors especially. I can't believe ya' pulled it off" Alex gave a shrug, tipping his hat in thanks for the comment.

"I was just doin' what I had to, I had my own reasons for coming here, but those outlaws needed dealin' with; I just happened to come by when it mattered" Quinn laughed, an open, innocent sound that would be scoured away in years to come, if he survived.

"It was damn impressive what you did, sir, and I'm glad you were here. Not doing anything, just sittin' here, waiting, didn't feel right, 'specially when ya could see what was goin' on in town" Alex tipped his hat again, turning north once more for his destination.

The prison was a derelict facility of the old world, revitalized by the new people to serve its old purpose. The walk to the place would have been just another, quiet walk through the desert, staying wary of wasteland critters, and checking the PIP–Boy to ensure he was moving in the correct direction. This jaunt, however, he was accompanied.

Hovering low to the ground, a spherical machine waited, placid, making little noise aside from the engine output. Alex had inquired of it, just an hour before the funeral, and Nash had explained it was delivered by another courier some weeks prior. The old man had tried to repair the machine, in fact repairing much of the physical damage it had sustained, but unable restore functionality.

Immediately following Nash's explanation, Alex had applied his gloved hand and blue light, broken into grids, scanned the machine thoroughly, revealing damaged wires and fuses. Those were easily replaced, and the machine came to, its version of, life.

It floated up once the switch was set, followed by an utterance of beeps and whirs which seemed to be an attempt at communication. Apparently understanding the confused looks on the faces of both men, it descended until resting beside the PIP–Boy, bumping his arm until Alex raised it to chest height.

The machine proceeded with opening a small port on its 'face', revealing a device very similar to the one used by Victor the Securitron. A diode emitted a red light, the PIP–Boy screen ran green with scrolling numbers, then blank once more, until text appeared which turned out to be words from the machine itself. Nash read the text as it was written.

"Combat Eyebot model zero–one; my name is ED–E, pronounced Eddie. Thank you for reactivating me".

The two men stared at the machine, the older bewildered, the younger impassive. The robot revealed itself to be a useful tool, and a capable combatant, following an assault of giant ants as Alex journeyed for the prison. The insects had no chance against the floating sphere of death, boiling their carapaces with blasts of infrared laser, whilst staying well above the reach of snapping mandibles.

Standing from his prone position, rifle down now seeing just with his eyes, Alex considered his approach. The fence was high, and barbed wire spanned the perimeter, watch towers placed at six positions rendering the entire courtyard a killing field. The only visible entrance was a gated security passage, leading directly into one of the larger buildings.

Shrugging, Alex turned to his new company "you might be more than a little conspicuous, so just stay out here 'til I get back" ED-E whirred and whooped, the text appeared on the PIP–Boy screen. The machine kept its words to simple syllables, though it still held a margin of difficulty for Alex to read.

"Fine; don't cry to me if you get shot" he snorted laughter at the smartass machine. Reaching up, he tapped a knuckle against the hull, sounding a dull 'thunk' on contact. In the predawn light, Alex strolled at an easy pace towards the prison.

At the fence, he turned, walking the perimeter, until he came upon the only means of entrance. Alex heard snoring beyond the chain–link gate, a single man posted to keep watch. The gate moved upon a track and wheel, which screeched as he moved it initially. Hesitating, hearing the grunts of the door guard as the man turned in sleep, he continued painstakingly slow, to move the old metal.

Five minutes passed before the old gate was open enough for Alex to slip through. His armor and guns added bulk, but necessary to be worn; the brim of his hat scraped the gate, rust fell as dust at his feet. Approaching the door and man who sat, asleep, at his post, he knelt to consider the lock. A moment and he removed the pick set from the sleeve in his boot. Tools in hand, he worked slowly until the last tumbler fell.

Within the building was an open area, chairs, tables, counters with cups and coffee machines scattered about. Alex felt little curiosity for the place, moving as quietly and quickly as possible, he exited the first building into the courtyard. The eastern sky held a hint of the rising sun, haste was required.

Consulting the aerial map displayed on the PIP–Boy, the building he'd just come from was intended for visiting peoples, offices were to the left, the prisoner facility on the right. Turning for the prison cells, walking through the courtyard, Alex felt as though any moment someone would awaken, find him, and end everything.

He reached the prisoner housing without incident. Entering, the first room was lit by electrical lantern, hotwired to large batteries. They were bright, and cast away shadows, an inconvenience but not a hindrance.

Into the building down a hall lined with cells, none of the sleeping men were the one he sought. Beagle had given a description of the man, a former sheriff named Meyers, imprisoned for going beyond lawful boundaries in favor of more vigilantism. More than that, the deputy was useless, both as a source of information and a man of law.

All of the cells were open, and there was enough light within the corridor to dimly see the faces of the prisoners. Alex finally found the man, asleep just as the others. Entering, he used one booted foot to waken the outlaw–sheriff. Ironic, in a way, having killed men dressed just the same as this one, and now about to release another to serve the law. Meyers came awake with a start.

"What the hell?" the man said before a hand clapped over his mouth. Finger to lips, gesturing for quiet; perhaps noticing the silhouettes of guns upon his back, Meyers quieted, and Alex removed his fingers.

"What the hell are ya' doin' in here? the Powder Gangers' will find ya, might kill ya unless they decide to use ya for sport" Meyers said, trying to look into the corridor or hear for anyone approaching.

"Town south of here, Primm, is in need of a sheriff. The last was killed by a splinter of these outlaws, and the town is full of old people who need protection. My job is to deliver on their new man…You" Alex said.

Meyers was at first incredulous, then despondent. He sat up on the cot, running a hand across the grayed, thinning hair atop his head.

Meyers sighed "I can't leave, stranger; I done wrong by the law and now I'm payin' for it. I took the law into my own hands" he looked up, stared into Alex's eyes "Laws are made for people to follow them, there made to keep order, but when men such as myself take it upon ourselves to be the law, then we are a danger to those we claim to protect. I tried to get justice, and ended up here. Might'a gotten a hangin' or a hail a' bullets, but men were needed, so here I am…in a prison now over run by men such as me".

An edge of irritation, exasperation, and frustration entered his thoughts, uttered in his voice. Reaching forward, Alex took a fistful of the man's shirt, jerked him up off the cot, and pinned him to the wall. Meyers yelped, surprised, when the back of his head hit the concrete wall.

"I have not traveled across this desert for you to feel sorry for yourself. You're not sorry for what you did, you're sorry you were caught. We're leaving, you will be the sheriff if I have to pin the badge onto your ribs. Get your sorry ass movin', now!" Alex snarled, mouth turned down in a grimace, teeth bared. The light of the corridor shone upon one iris, casting a hue upon the brown. It bore a feral, savage intensity. Meyers saw this, and understood one thing about the man.

To deny him was dangerous, to stand in his way was death.

Meyers nodded, unspeaking. Alex released him, about to turn for the cell door when a click resounded in the silent confines. A retracted hammer, the priming of a firing pin before a copper plated fuse of a bullet; a nine–millimeter was leveled at his head, directly above the scar from the last nine–millimeter to scar his face.

"Bad choice to come here, Law Man" said a voice, before a sharp pain erupted on the back of his head. The pistol bearer had cracked Alex on the back of his skull with the butt. He fell to his knees, and then forward toward Meyers, the last image before darkness spread across his vision.

* * *

><p>'<em>tick<em>' '_tick_' '_tick_' a mechanical sound echoed low in his ears, the only sound. All else was black, and a throbbing headache centered at the base of his skull. '_tick_' '_tick_' '_tick_' went the machine, whatever it was.

"He's awake, boss" came a voice, to the right and back, two feet. A simple reach and twist the man would be dead. Working his hands to strike, they were bound with thick cords. A feel of cloth over his head suggested as to why the world was dark.

"Take it off" spoke another voice, commanding yet over confidant. A tug and off came a burlap sack, and Alex could see.

He sat in a chair, within an office…surrounded by Powder Gangers, some wearing prison guard armor, other wearing a simple shirt, a jacket, all carrying nine-millimeter pistols. One of them, in armor, sat at a desk.

The chair he was tied onto sat before the desk, the outlaws arrayed around himself and the man who seemed to be in charge, for he was the only one sitting as well. His weapons lay upon the desk; all of them, the rifle; shotgun; the old ten; his machete, and grenade rifle. The boss held Lucky, turning the cylinder idly in his hands.

Nobody spoke, but the '_tick_' '_tick_' '_tick_' of the revolver continued to sound. Perhaps the men thought silence would scare him, render him to a bawling mass of pitiless fear as he wet himself. Alex was patient, however, yet growing bored. The headache exasperated and wore on that patience; the damn continuous '_tick_' '_tick_' '_tick_' of Lucky's cylinder wearing upon his nerves.

Finally blessed silence once the outlaw leader placed the finely crafted revolver upon the desk, crossed his fingers and reclined within the chair. The man stared at Alex, bound and vulnerable, as though considering…what? Whatever their plan was or will be, all he knew was that the binding at his wrists were becoming uncomfortable. _Tied too tightly, cutting off circulation_.

"I should just kill you right know, sneaking in here. What are you doin' here, working for the NCR?" said the leader. Alex chose not to respond, the man was rather rude with introductions.

Nodding at one of his patsies, a man with brown skin and dark hair, the outlaw leader watched impassively as the indicated man picked up the shotgun resting atop the table. Using the butt of the weapon, he struck Alex across the face.

Tasting blood, but wearing a cocky smirk, Alex looked back at the leader, his teeth staining red. The leader quirked an eyebrow, chin resting atop intertwined fingers as he watched.

Spitting out a globule of blood, Alex smirked once more "you didn't introduce yourself; it's not proper manners to begin a conversation without knowing each other's names first" the leader continued to watch, know taken aback somewhat by the ridiculous statement. Lowering his hands onto the desk, he spoke though not to introduce himself.

"Listen wise guy, you're in my prison, I caught you and I want answers. Who do you work for? NCR? Bounty hunter or mercenary hired to scout out the prison?" Alex's smirk grew wider as the abject terror disguised as hostility made itself apparent upon the leader's face. He decided the man would have an answer, if only to satisfy the question.

"Courier, Mojave Express service" Alex said, enjoying the look of confusion and anger on the man's face. He nodded again, and the shotgun stock connected, cutting his lip this time and leaving a bruise high on the left cheek. He laughed, low and manic, as blood and spittle ran down his chin; spitting again, this time landing on a prisoner's boot, he caught the eyes of the outlaw leader.

"You still haven't introduced yourself, nor your compatriots. Rather rude of a host, you know" this time the shotgun wielding prisoner stepped forward without the okay from his boss, but a sharp word stopped the man in his step toward their insufferable captive. The leader stood from his chair, looked Alex dead in the eye, and smirked.

"Alright, _Courier_; name's Eddie, and these are my boys. But I think you're lyin' 'bout who you work for, so unless you can prove you work for the Express, I'll let my boys continue until you spill your guts out" taking the machete in hand, slapping the flat of the blade against his open palm, Eddie finished hollowly "…literally if I have to".

'_A lame threat from a lame man, if he really intended to Eddie would have done so_' Alex thought, a smirk still upon his face. "Alex Hugh, and the proof is in my pants pocket, right side, if you're curious".

Tapping his fingers together, rhythmically down from fore to smallest, Eddie nodded at one of his men, standing to Alex's right. The man, a tall bearded fellow with muscular arms, approached. Kneeling, the man pulled a sheet of paper from the right pants pocket, handing it off to his boss before returning to his original place.

Eddie opened the sheet, read through it, twice, before refolding it and dropping it onto the desktop.

"Delivering a package to Vegas, huh? So why are you here and not there" Eddie asked. Alex huffed, and told the silent room a shortened version of his tale, leaving out the fight in Goodsprings and the dead outlaw band. For good measure, he showed the bullet scar, to which a few murmured to each other, one whistled, and Eddie looked impressed.

More than impressed, Eddie stood, came around the desk and leaned against it, considering Alex. "A'right, I don't think you're NCR, but you're something else, and more than a courier. You're tough, and I respect that. Tell ya what, you do somethin' for us, I reciprocate, you get somethin' back, and we're square" Alex quirked an eyebrow, licked the cut lip and spat out more blood.

"Square enough that the roughin' up is water under the bridge" Eddie smirked. Alex nodded a silent agreement. The binds were removed, blood flowed into his hands setting them tingling. Rubbing them to restore blood flow, he stood.

"There's a bathroom down the hall, on the left, you can wash up, then I have a small job fer' ya, a test of faith" nodding, Alex left the office. Washing his mouth of blood in the old sink several times, he ran a finger over his teeth. None were broken, thankfully. Wiping his mouth, he returned to the office. Now it was just himself, Eddie and one of the men.

The guns still lay upon the desk, Lucky closer to Eddie. Alex did not sit, but stood as the man droned about another outlaw, Chavez, who defied orders, and was to be dealt with immediately. Nodding, he took back the weapons, lastly eyeing the revolver.

Eddie took Lucky once more, running a hand upon the barrel, feeling the grip and admiring the fine work. "I think I'll keep this one" he said, shoving the revolver into the waistband of his pants. Unnoticed by either man, Alex's jaw clenched, ankle tightened and back stiffened, rather than his hands becoming fists.

Replacing the hat atop his head, Alex touched the brim "Nuntius tui fati ero, I'll be back after Chavez" his voice did not betray the coal of anger he could almost feel in his gut. Turning, his mind was on two things at the moment, the task at hand and Eddie.

Out of the administration building of the prison, across the courtyard and through the visitation building, Alex spied Meyers at a table, cup of coffee before him, sitting alone while other men ate. They seemed to shun the former law man, insuring no less than one row of tables stood between them.

Meyers spied Alex, considered him for a moment then motioned him to sit. Obliging, he sat, and the older man returned his attentions toward the cup, half empty and cold.

"Were you serious about me being Primms' sheriff?" the man asked. Alex nodded without hesitation. Meyers took off his hat, ran fingers through the thinning hair, and then replaced the hat.

"I can't just leave, I need a pardon. The only places to go for that is either the NCR embassy on the Vegas Strip" Meyers shook his head, muttering "too far"; "…or the Mojave Outpost, way south beyond Primm, it's the main border checkpoint between California and this 'wasteland' here them folks in Reddin' are trying to grab from the Legion"

Alex nodded once more, standing now to attend to his business. "Be careful out there, ya' hear" Meyers said as way of goodbye; walking away, Alex waved two fingers to show he heard. Outside, the sun had risen. The PIP–Boy clock showed zero-seven-hundred hours. Sighing, through the gate, he turned north for the last known location of Chavez and his little illicit gang.

Whether violence or diplomacy, neither mattered to Eddie, nor Alex; the end would be the exact same no matter the situations result. However this little game of theirs was played, the only outcome would be a decision of his alone; in either case…he would get his gun back.

* * *

><p>The parched earth of the desert had been radiating heat for two hours now. Though not so hot as the prior day, Alex still sweated a constant stream, soaked up by the shirt beneath his armor. Any discomfort was alleviated by the fact his 'jobs' for the Powder Gangers had gone very well.<p>

Chavez, as he was called, had been worth the expended effort of bullets that were used. Four shots and four dead bodies, of which Eddie was more than happy to compensate him with dynamite and gunpowder, both now resting within the satchel Alex carried. The next job proved to be more clandestine.

A merchant, or so the man claimed, sited around the prison; when pressed, the man was in fact a bounty hunter, hunting outlaws going to and coming from the prison facility. Alex had scared the man off, but not before 'asking' for a sum of caps, stating if he had been another of the outlaws, the man would be broke and dead.

And now he was to spy and obtain information from NCR forces regarding the prison. Though not stated, the look within Eddie's eyes revealed the acquired information would cause the deaths of many of the young soldiers around Primm, they being the only nearby outpost with a force comparable to the prison full of outlaws.

For the moment, the asphalt pavement of the old highway slid beneath his feet, falling behind and stretching onto the horizon. Looking upon that stretch of desert and road, one might see endless sand and deadly heat, an end nowhere in sight.

But all in this world must come to an end at some time, for eternity lay beyond the attainable for mankind and their follies. The destruction of the old world proved that with a catastrophic answer, and yet those who remained perpetuated the same actions and reactions which lead to those decisions bringing fire to the skies of a once beautiful planet, despite the ravages of humans.

For Alex, his end came with the sight of Primm in the distance. Breathing deep of the desert air, though warm now but fresh, a swig of cool water from his canteen, and a fine tune playing on the PIP–Boy radio, the pace of his feet recovered a vigorous step that had been lacking since the events of the early morning; the low electric hum of engines reminded him he was no longer alone though.

Hovering one foot above his head, swaying in time with the music from the speaker, ED–E followed in marginal silence. The machine was intriguing, and not merely for the fact that it seemed to possess a sarcastic tendency in communications with its leader. It featured some…impressive abilities.

The machine, seemingly, functioned as an antenna for the PIP–Boy sensor, even distinguishing what could possibly be friendly from foe with a range of blip colors, mainly of green, yellow and red for respective threat probabilities. Since activation, the feature had proven itself well worth the conspicuous presence of the machine itself.

ED–E, as a whole, was a welcomed companion, for both its offensive and defensive capabilities, and to break the monotony of the desert. Despite it being a machine, Alex had carried on a few long 'conversations', some of which he even laughed at.

Primm solidified from the haze of heat radiating off of the pavement, and at the same corner he spied Private Quinn. The young soldier spied him as well and waved. Alex waved back, glad to have returned; this business with the prisoners and their attempts at freedom were wearing and annoying. But Eddie still held Lucky.

Truth be told, a new revolver could be purchased, but he wanted Lucky: it was well made, beautiful, and most importantly had been stolen from him. In all respects, he had stolen the revolver in the first place by hacking the safe of the hotel gift shop. But the law of the wastes was as the old saw goes "finders, keepers; losers, weepers". Alex intended not to be a loser.

South along the old Interstate 15, down the road and finally into the NCR camp. Since the deaths of the outlaws within the town, the troopers here had seemingly little to do, except run exercises, merely staying within the vicinity of Primm. It was odd, Alex thought, that a platoon of soldiers, though inexperienced, should merely be left in the wastes whilst their comrades in arms held far more substantial positions across the desert.

Alex spied Private Connor, sitting in a chair, reading a magazine, shaded by a broken wall of brick as he lounged. Though loathe doing so Alex approached the private, who acknowledged his presence with a flick of the eyes, before returning to the magazine.

"Where is Lieutenant Hayes?" he asked; Connor actually looked at him this time, even rendering an answer. "Center tent, just waiting, as are we all, for orders to wherever the brass tells us to go in this forsaken place" Nodding, Alex proceeded to the tent indicated. The interior was warmer than outside.

Hayes sat at a table, eating from a ration tin of what appeared to be beans and meat, though arguably the small, square cuts of flesh could be anything. Covered in a thick, dirt brown 'sauce' of some concoction, Alex did not envy the man his meal. Looking up, the two made eye contact.

Setting the can of beans atop the table, the Lieutenant gestured for him to take a seat, accepting it without preamble.

"I've been with the NCR Army for nigh on fifteen years; in that time, I've seen men turn from cowards into heroes, seen new territories added to the expanding borders of California, and lead good men to victory and death in equal measure" Hayes said when Alex sat, simultaneously unclipping the gun harness to be set aside for a reprieve. Elbows up on the table, short-cropped hair revealed by the absence of the green beret, the Lieutenant gave him an analyzing look.

Raising a finger, pointing at Alex square in the chest, "but in all that time, I have _never _seen a civilian, no matter how capable, pull off what you did, alone, with the iron you carried in. And that last outlaw, that kid" Hayes shook his head, lowering his eyes, causing him to mix the cast of regret in the brown eyes of the courier sitting at his table.

"You've got luck, a guardian angel, or something lookin' out for you, Alex Hugh, cause there ain't no way in hell and damnation where a man could do what you did, and still be sucking hot, dust–choked air" nodding, Alex placed his own elbows atop the table.

"Concerning Powder Gangers, I wanted to talk to you, about them" Hayes gave a nod and a shrug, agreeing.

"Firstly, I ventured out to their base, that prison they're hold up at. I managed to get inside, but was caught" deciding to leave out certain aspects of his adventure into outlaw territory, Alex told Hayes what he could, and then dropped the bomb.

"I've agreed to work for them, as they let me go, _after_ a 'chat' as their leader called it. I've killed a rouge outlaw crew, then ousted a bounty hunter looking for easy prey, not having realized his cover was blown" the look upon the Lieutenants face grew steadily grimmer, and then moved to reserved, hiding suspicion and anger behind a stone–faced façade.

"But, in all honesty, I don't truly care for the current company I have been keeping" ED–E whirred, beeped, sputtered with indignation at this. Not looking at the PIP–Boy screen, which scrolled an expanding line of text, Alex did made a dismissing gesture, a small acknowledgement of the machines' exclusion in that comment. Hayes merely watched, still reserved, though confused at the scene before him; obviously the man had never seen a robot and human hold a conversation.

"Eddie, the leader, stole from me, and I want it back; if you are interested, I am willing to help in whatever is available towards meeting a…mutually beneficial outcome" a sly wink, and an outstretched hand towards Hayes. The man looked at the proffered gesture, and took in the contours, calluses upon the fingers and scarred knuckles.

A slight smirk and Hayes shook "you are a sly fox, Alex Hugh, and if it weren't for what you did in Primm, I'd have you arrested, but" the Lieutenant looked him square in the eye "what is planned will be a coordinated, _military_ operation; you are a civilian contractor, again, your life your choice" Nodding, Alex removed his canteen, setting it atop the table.

Hayes looked at the metal container, blue with a yellow thirteen painted on it. "Fresh, clean, cold water; join me for a drink, sir" Hayes smirked again, stood and retrieved two glasses. Setting them upon the table, Alex nearly emptied the canteen into the two glasses. Raising the water, clacking rims, both said "to victory, here and beyond" and drank deeply.

* * *

><p>Once more on the road, this time heading further south from Primm, the hostile nature of the Mojave Desert made itself known as the day wore onto mid-afternoon. The day was not hot, a stiff breeze came from the west over the mountains cooling down the temperature, but the constant draft of dust invaded the leather armor, mixed with his sweat and dried out his skin. Add to that it was an uncomfortable sensation, akin to mud on his body. Alex ignored it.<p>

Though his memories were vacant, the Void seemed to echo the sentiment of ignoring sensations or situations which he either deemed unimportant or to be bearable until time allowed for his attention. But ignoring the fine particulates against his skin was an exercise in self–control, and the only resolution available was to quicken the pace of which he'd been walking since leaving Primm far behind. The destination still lay to the south, but the prominent landmark was in sight.

Alex took a breath through the bandanna he wore across his nose and mouth; a pair of goggles was affixed onto his eyes against the dust. Both were a gift from Nash, just before leaving Primm with fresh supplies and a refilled canteen. Over a ham radio Johnson had called the Mojave Outpost, the border control station between the wasteland and the highly vaunted democratic republic of New California.

Johnson had asked for a weather update, and had received bad news: a storm was building on the Western slope of the Sierra Nevada mountain range, rain and lightning were isolated to that side of the mountains but the winds would be funneling east, increasing in speed to gale forces. Forecasters estimated by 1900 hrs the storm would blanket the entire wasteland in speeding dust.

The report had left the Nash's worried, tough as both Ruby and Johnson were they were old and the dust might put them down for some time. Alex had promised to move doubly fast to and back before the stated hour to see the old couple safe from harm, as much as he could. This is the reason why he is now, at a near jog, beelining for the southern most military checkpoint of the expanding NCR territory, ignoring all the while dust invading his armor.

ED–E hovered at his side, well above the blowing dust of the desert, playing a tune over the radio, through its speaker–face. It was a nice song, light and swinging – if asked Alex would say the machine had music preferences for nearly every genre it had played over the past few hours, ever since the first job for the Powder Gangers.

Despite the noise Alex worried not that an enemy would hear them, and if any did, the plucky robot would first alert him and then begin firing on the offending intruder until it was a burnt corpse, whereupon the music would resume, from exactly where it had stopped playing for the hostile encounter. He was also marginally grateful for the company, despite the one-sided nature of their acquaintanceship: ED–E didn't have much in the way of conversation unless directly spoken to.

Ahead of the duo of man and robot lay a decayed and broken elevated roadbed and to their front and right, a seemingly flat stretch of land–not a valley, or anything made entirely by nature. Rocks lay at regular intervals, some as tall as Alex, others reaching his chest; the rocks spread out in an oval shape for a distance. It was an odd sight, and so warranted a look at the map.

The two triangles indicating himself and ED–E were apparent, resting next to the same oval shape on their left. A tap on the screen, and the name appeared. Somewhat indistinguishable, two words Alex could read: 'race track'. Glancing from the map screen to the oval, he shrugged and continued to walk.

The 'race track' would not have entered his mind for the rest of the day, filed under the 'to ignore' domain, except ED–E sounding a warning of hostiles. Instinct overrode reason. Dropping into a crouch, down into the race track and rolling until coming to rest against a rock, his rifle appeared in his hands without conscious thought.

A measure of mindfulness reasserted, and Alex glanced at the PIP–Boy screen: half a dozen contacts, all painted by ED–E's systems, the information transmitted by short range point–to–point wireless connection, impossible to intercept unless standing within a six foot diameter range. The contacts lay due south, a range finder indicating the distance at one–hundred yards. Staying low among the ordered rocks of the race track, Alex stalked forward, alternating between the screen and visual awareness.

Below the sound of wind and churning dust came a sound–skittering and clacking. Finally stopping just short of twenty – five feet of the contacts, Alex climbed atop a rock to view his enemies. There were six, indeed.

Six ants.

Alex, at first, was confused, and then annoyed: pinpoint accuracy, but ED–E had warned him of six pests, small ones as well. With a grimace and growl of frustration, he came out from the rock, pulling the ten millimeter pistol.

Six shots, and six dead ants; approaching one, he kicked it. ED–E screeched again, this time Alex saw the ants without the need of the PIP–Boy, as these were far larger than the midgets at his feet. Before him skittered eight beastly ants, hair covered bodies, sharp mandibles and dripping maws. The pistol would not be enough for these pests, so he ran, and the giant insects gave chase.

Down the highway Alex ran, gaining as much distance as was possible before acting. ED–E, meanwhile, was cooking one ant with the infrared laser mounted below its 'face', blackening the carapace and boiling the intestines until the abdomen burst. One down, seven remaining; turning, pivoting, reaching, he shouted "GRENADE".

Pulling the grenade rifle from the leg holster, loading one HE round into the chamber, Alex leveled…and breathed.

Time slowed; the dust swirled, danced around his feet, drifted and flowed into beautiful forms. The ants skittered, their motions slow, heads rolling, mandibles snapping at the retreating metal ball. ED–E flew pell-mell down the highway, the unseen thruster running at full power, trying to put distance between itself and the ants.

Alex…breathed…leveled…fired. The rifle gave out a sound, between a puff of air from an enclosed chamber and two metal bodies scraping against each other. The explosive round soared high and true, arcing over the flying robot and down into the center of massed insects. Time…snapped back into normality with a thunderous roar.

The high explosive round detonated directly center of the ants: first the concussive wave lifted the creatures high, the pressure fracturing the carapaces and tearing limbs. Shrapnel of asphalt and grenade shredded the insects. Body parts rained from the sky as the report of explosion died away on the wind…followed by the slap of fatigue as the adrenaline surge ceased coursing through his body.

Alex fell onto his knees, heart racing, hammering against the rib cage. Sound deadened and vision blurred at the edges of peripheral sight. Motion of any sort was useless as his body seized from withdrawal. Kneeling for several minutes, until able to raise his eyes, to take in the sight of obliterated bugs on the highway; one of the heads lay not two feet away, the large black eyes oozing fluids, mandibles broken, and antennae sheared off.

Another five minutes passed before rising unsteadily to his feet once more. A fortifying breath and swig of water followed with some dried meat set him to rights. The first step was tough, the second less so; soon Alex walked at the same clip he had before the bug fight.

Through the dust various shapes could be discerned; old hulks of cars and a raised overpass. The sights solidified as he approached, soon walking beneath the decaying structure to begin an uphill ascent where two tall figures stood. The dust shadowed the towering visage, but it soon became apparent the figures were statues.

The statues bore no faces, but one wore a long coat and helmet, the other wore a hat and armor. Approaching the monolith, Alex saw the two figures straddled the road, which lead to an old border checkpoint. Old cars choked the lanes, the smell of dung hang upon the air from pens of Brahmin. Soldiers stood, sat, read and smoked while on their guard rotations.

One of these approached, a man with dark skin, thick beard and mustache. "Welcome to the Mojave Outpost" stated the soldier, who, Alex guessed, did not truly mean the words he spoke. The atmosphere and attitude of this place was apparent: absolute boredom, given way to slovenly activity. Just as with Primm, these were not soldiers but boys who had not yet shed blood, not yet seen one of their brothers killed. This place stank, and not merely of dung from two–headed cows.

The soldier gestured over his right soldier, in the direction of one of two buildings situated behind a chain link fence. "Anything you need done, talk to Major Knight or Ranger Jackson; Jackson is in charge of this place, but Knight can do just about anything you need, so long as you have a pencil or pen with enough ink"

Tipping his hat, with a muttered "thank ya, much", Alex made for the indicated building. ED–E floated beside him, shoulder level, and any soldier who glanced at the odd pair, turned away without comment. The wasteland held so many fantastic and wondrous things, a floating robot was not very interesting, or curiosity was truly deadly and all but avoided for safety.

Opening one of the double doors, Alex found a man not much older than himself, sitting behind a counter, magazine in hand which featured guns and bullets as cover art. The man, Major Knight perhaps, set down the magazine and stood; leaning forward, taking in this newcomer, who wore an arsenal of guns across his body and fine leather armor.

"Merchant, Caravan Mercenary, Citizen…Pilgrim" the last was uttered as an afterthought by the way it sounded. Alex shook his head, stepping up to the counter separating the two men.

"Courier; are you Major Knight?" he asked; Knight nodded; he pulled a large ledger from a shelf beneath the counter top, a pencil in the other hand, and jotted down a few things. Alex was asked his name, occupation, his attire was noted, and traveling companion listed as 'non–human: robot'.

"What brings you here?" Knight asked, setting the ledger onto its shelf once more. Alex removed his hat, ran fingers through thick hair, thinking of a way to come across as diplomatic. He sighed.

"Primm, to the north, was attacked by Powder Gangers; they killed the sheriff and held the town for a few days. All are dead now, but the town is without law enforcement, and the deputy is incompetent. I have found a replacement, but his situation is unique" Alex iterated, looking Knight square in the eye as to convey the severity of his words. All the while, the Major listened. Until it was mentioned that Meyers was held at the prison.

Knight stood back, anger overriding the previous expression of calm attentiveness "why the hell should one of those outlaws be put in the charge of safety for a town, especially a place such as Primm; that town was a major trade hub, before those outlaws came in". Alex had waited until the man was done talking before stating his logic.

"Meyers is in no way affiliated with the Powder Gangers, nor did he have anything to do with the events of the breakout incident. His current sentence was nearly complete before the outlaws made their attempt, and now he just sits in that prison, afraid if he left the outlaws would kill him". Knight seemed to be thinking; finally a shrug and a following gesture, the Major led him around the desk into a hallway and an office.

Sitting in a chair, writing into forms several pages thick, by lantern light, was a man with a large mustache and a very tired face. Rings and creases lined his face, aging him. This man looked up when Major Knight and Alex walked in.

The Major snapped a crisp salute to the older man, who turned in his chair, muttering "At ease, major". "Sir" Knight replied, lowering his hand but remaining at posture.

"Sir, this civilian has brought something of importance to my attention, but the delicate nature I believe merits your judgment" Knight iterated. The man stood, a small groan escaping his throat. Stepping forward, shoving a hand at Alex's to shake. "Ranger Jackson, Commander in charge of this here outpost". They shook, and Jackson offered a chair immediately accepted.

"I'll handle this, Knight, return to your post" Jackson said. Another sharp salute and the Major departed. Before Alex could speak, the Ranger began.

"Good lad, Knight; one of the few here who knows how to be a soldier: Just Kilborn, Knight, Ranger Ghost and I are the only soldiers here with combat experience. Everyone else is a recruit, fodder, really, for the Legion and their dogs" Jackson sighed again. "So what do you have for me that is so important that Knight couldn't take care of it himself". Alex retold the whole story of Primm and Meyers. When he was finished, the Ranger looked contemplative.

"I can understand your logic and reasons, even sympathize with your task, but there is still an issue: Meyers committed a crime, even though it was for good intentions, but that is what the law states. I know of only one person who could do what you need, but he might say no". Jackson said, grave, looking at Alex, who merely sat, silently, just listening.

He nodded once, and spoke "who would that be?" "Colonel James Hsu, the military governor of this territory. In this wasteland, he is one of four among the most powerful people, including House who rules the Strip, Colonel Cassandra Moore at Hoover Dam, and Caesar himself" Jackson said.

Those names sent the Void into the most activity it since Goodsprings. It felt as though a spike was being driven through the center of his skull. What seemed to be an eternity lasted only seconds. Jackson stood over him, concerned. Alex stood, shakily, and leaned against the desk.

Shaking his head, throat dry, he said "head injury, good most days but it flares occasionally". Jackson nodded "there is a brain doctor you could see about that, north of the Strip. Usanagi's her name, runs a clinic; might be a good place to go for your needs" Nodding, Alex stood straight again.

"I'll get on the radio to McCarran, ask for the Colonel and relate this idea of yers'. He's a fine commanding officer and is realistic about issue such as this, he'll consider before passing judgment. Meantime there's a saloon in the adjacent building", said Jackson. Alex nodded, and the two men parted.

Outside the wind was accelerating but had not reached the full pitch it was meant to this evening. Still it was a hell to stand in that gale; he felt the force press against his body, pushing back. He trudged across the courtyard of the outpost, to an equally grey building. The door shrieked as rusted hinges scraped against metal. Shutting the door against the wind was a task, but a soldier stepped and leant his body weight and the door shut promptly.

Nodding to the soldier, who returned the gesture, Alex made for the bar. An older woman stood behind the counter, with the most discordant array of drinks on the shelves behind her: bottles of water, alcohol, bottles of soda and…glowing bottles. The barwoman looked up from the glass she'd been cleaning. Setting down the glass, leaning against the counter towards him, she gave him a tired smirk.

"What'll ya have, big man?" Alex sat at one of the barstool, hat off, upside–down on the counter, considering the beverages upon the shelves. Deciding on what he knew, he ordered a sarsaparilla for five caps. Bottle in hand, he twisted the cap off, but stopped before placing the bit of currency into cash bag on his belt. The cap was painted black underneath the coloring on the reverse. A blue star emblazoned in the center. He felt eyes on him at the moment.

Appearing casual, he slid the cap away, and then tapped the PIP–Boy screen. A feature ED–E stated was a camera view, accessible through the device. Activating this, Alex tapped the right side of the screen, and his robot companion turned. The camera showed a woman, garbed in leather armor, staring at him. Taking in her features, committing details to memory, he set to the drink.

The double door to the saloon slammed open, and not by the force of the wind. A svelte woman stomped in, leaving the wind to enter the establishment unimpeded. Two soldiers promptly closed the doors, muttering unkind words about the woman. Stomping over to the bar, the skinny firebrand dropped into a stool, dropping ten caps.

"Whiskey, no glass" she called out, but the barwoman was already approaching with a full bottle in hand. Bottle and money exchanged, the woman took the whiskey, threw back her head and drank directly from the neck, a generous mouthful. Alex watched, impassive, as the drunkard set down the bottle, wiped her mouth, and took notice of him. She gave him an angry look, as best she could make; he could see the bloodshot eyes, flushed cheeks, and other, smaller signs. _This woman was fairly inebriated well before coming in here_.

"You got a problem, cowboy? somethin' to say to me? Surprised a _girl_ could out drink a _guy_?" he shrugged, and returned to his soda. "HEY! I'm talking to you" the woman yelled, she stood; despite the inebriation, she was fast. Before the bottle reached his lips, the woman snatched and threw it. The two soldiers, who had previously closed the door, jumped in their seats when the bottle skidded across their table and shattered on the wall beside them.

Two soldiers stood, intending to take the woman, but Alex stepped forward. Holding up his hand, he addressed the uniformed men.

"I'll handle this, soldiers; please, return to your drinks, my friend shall not be a bother for the rest of the evening" the soldiers looked at Alex, then the woman. Both shrugged and returned to their table, more subdued from the incident. He turned toward the woman, whose hat had come off in her anger. She wore her hair, an auburn red, in a ponytail; light freckles across one cheek, her nose and onto the other cheek. Her gray eyes bore into his, angry but held in check, somewhat.

She stood chest high to him, with the addition of the boots she wore. By her attire, he guessed a merchant; too light for the arduous wasteland, but comfortable for travel. She had a rifle in a sling on her back, with makeshift repairs could be seen on the stock.

Alex stuck his hand out, "Alex Hugh, Mojave Express Courier". The woman was surprised by the action, staring at the hand, unmoving to take the offered greeting. Slowly, she moved her right into his and shook. "Cass", she said, turning away from the weird stranger for her stool and bottle. He followed, retrieved his hat and sat down on her left.

"What's a Courier doing in a dump such as this; your office is in Primm. You're doing damn better business than Caravaneers these days. Back west, before this place, the town I was in bustled with Couriers making deliveries. They charging you overtime for all that work your doing?" Cass asked. Alex shook his head.

"Can't speak for the rest of the Couriers; me, I'm here to deliver a man's freedom" Cass snorted. "The hell kind of a job entails 'delivering freedom'" Alex smirked.

"Primm was hit by outlaws, who killed their sheriff. The outlaws were driven out, so to speak, and now requires a new sheriff. Ironically, the best candidate is, himself, in prison; took the law into his own hands, and got caught" Cass listened, bottle in hand but forgotten. She snorted, and took a drink, another generous mouthful.

Cass set the bottle down, hands on the counter leaning forward. "So the NCR rides into battle against the outlaws, cleans the town up and needs a new sheriff, one just happens to be conveniently locked away in their own prison, and hire you to get him set free" Cass said, staring through lidded eyes as the alcohol coursed through her system. Alex smirked again, shook his head.

"Not quite how it happened" she raised an eyebrow, and he continued. "There was a military presence at Primm, but they were poorly trained boys, who wouldn't know the muzzle from the stock until each had shot off their hand; only one was a capable soldier, their commanding officer. But he didn't want to endanger the lives of his men, so they let me go in, instead"

Cass scoffed, muttered "pussies" and took another drink. She set the bottle down again, hard; the amount of alcohol seemed to finally be getting to her, and yet she was still coherent. Alex could not say whether or not it was remarkable, or funny to watch as the woman looked at him with lidded eyes, with a slight sway as she sat at the bar.

"So YOU go in, do your town hero thing, and now you're here, huh" Alex nodded, and Cass let out a long, heavily drunken laugh, mouth wide open as she cackled.

"HEY, LACEY! GOT YER'SELF A REAL, LIVE HERO HERE" Cass called out to the barwoman, who looked over at the two, rolling her eyes at the woman. "Get this guy a drink; he's the one who tore those outlaws in Primm a new hole".

One soldier, who had been ignoring the drunk woman, looked over "You really the one Hayes called about". Alex turned at the sound of voice stating the Lieutenants' name. The speaker wore a green beret just as Hayes did. This soldier stood, and made for Alex.

"Comm Officer Jeremy Peck, 5th Battalion; I've been in communication with Hayes since that whole mess started, then he tells me the situation is handled…by a well armed courier, with leather armor and an old hat" Peck looked him up and down. "So you're Alex Hugh, huh"

Peck stuck out a hand, a grin on his face "that was a hell of a stunt you pulled off, I'd say reckless, but you did it; and literally dodged a bullet right at the end". Alex shook the offered hand, whilst around the bar murmurs of curiosity began arise. One soldier, a woman, stood up.

"'Dodged a bullet, sir?" she asked. Peck's grin grew "Damn right, I thought the same but Hayes just said the same thing". Strolling into the middle of the room, arms wide, he addressed the whole room of soldiers and merchants.

"One final Powder Ganger, armed with a nine–millimeter pistol; they stood, separated only by the distance of thirty paces. The outlaw fired, and Alex Hugh spun out of the bullets way, bringing to bear his own revolver, which shone in the desert sun: an instrument of death wrought in a beautiful body. One shot cracked the air and the outlaw dropped dead, just as the town clock tower chimes twelve noon, tolling the death of agent of injustice"

Were Alex to say he was embarrassed would be an understatement. Peck had made him out to be some kind of wandering hero, which was not true, in Alex's opinion. Cass had listened to the whole performance, though she did not render an opinion. Rather, her swaying become more pronounced, and soon fell off of her stool.

The reaction was instantaneous. One moment Alex sat, placidly embarrassed due to the iteration of his actions in Primm, the next moment he is kneeling, cradling an unconscious woman in his arms. Lacey the barwoman come out from behind the counter and knelt with him. In his arms, the woman looked small, her face resting against his leather armored chest, mouth slightly open, snoring low.

"Do you have something for excessive alcohol consumption? If so, bring that and water" Alex stood, Cass light in his arms, and entered the sleeping quarters of the saloon. One bunk, in the corner, held a satchel and travel pack, worn from use on the road. A tag stitched on the front showed the initials 'R.S.C'. Assuming the bunk belonged to the unconscious woman, he set her down.

In her whiskey–sleep, Cass grabbed for his hand. Her grip was tight, and she tried to speak, but could not form the words properly. Lacey came to his side carrying a bottle of water and a box of round chalk pills in both hands; sitting on the bed, she opened the box, removed one pill followed by opening the water and crushing the pill inside of the cap.

The powdered tablet became suspended in the water. Nodding, Alex sat Cass up, head back on his shoulder; Lacey pried open her mouth and held it as she poured the solution down her throat in drops and small streams. It was a slow process, but the alcohol kept her docile, her throat opened and working reflexively. The water emptied, with no remaining bits of the pill.

Lacey stood as Alex set Cass down on the bed, her hand still held on tightly to his. "Fixer and water, she'll feel better in the morning; physically, anyway" the barwoman shrugged and left for her customers. He was unable to move, so waited instead. The PIP–Boy clock registered seventeen–hundred hours.

To get back to Primm before nineteen–hundred, Alex would have to move quickly. But he stayed by this woman, who held onto his hand for dear life. A tear ran down her face; she was speaking but he could not hear. Removing a cloth, he wiped away the tear; now he was close enough to hear.

"Pa, Ma; I'm sshorry, I'm sho shorry" Alex placed his own hand over hers, caressing, kneading. He leaned over and whispered "sorry for what, Little Rose?" the pendant of a rose hung about her neck, a simple piece yet of fine craftsmanship; the nickname was a guess.

"Dishapointin' you" Cass said; Alex smiled, a sad, forlorn expression. He spoke again into her ear.

"You did not disappoint us; we love you, always" a beautiful smile graced her face, followed by more tears. He wiped those away; finally Cass released his hand, tucking it under her head as a pillow. From her pack he found a blanket, which he laid atop her. Standing again, turning, Jackson stood in the entry way of the sleeping quarters, watching, leaning against the wall.

Gesturing, the Ranger moved around the corner, Alex followed. Jackson stood near the door, a paper in hand.

Handing off the paper, Alex looked at it. It was an envelope, sealed with wax stamped with the emblem of a shield with the head of a bear as its heraldry.

"A pardon, from Colonel James Hsu, Commanding Officer of the First Brigade NCR Army in the Mojave, and acting military governor of all NCR territory north and east of this outpost" Jackson stated; the Ranger had removed his glasses and squared Alex with his eyes, a hard gaze.

Alex nodded, not speaking. This light piece of paper, or parchment perhaps from the feel of it, carried the weight of protection for an entire town. It was a heavy burden. "Here" Jackson said once more, taking his arm and leading to a table. Upon the table rested a rifle, supplies of food, water, medicine, ammunition. It was an impressive collection.

"Ranger Ghost informed me of the ants you killed at the race track; they've been a nuisance for some days now" Alex looked at the Ranger, who held a finger up to him. "Just so you know, a requisition order was made, the supplies distributed, but documents were lost and the receiving party is unknown" Jackson slapped him on the back once, then left.

Alex grinned. Fixing the rifle onto his back, replacing the two–round shotgun which he fixed in a sling to his lower back, and loading all supplies into various pouches and the satchel he carried. He fixed the bandanna and goggles on before leaving the outpost saloon.

Outside the wind was fierce. He made for the gate entrance but stopped in his tracks when a woman appeared before him. She was a slight thing, pale, a very thin figure, wearing men's clothes, sunglasses and a hat, carrying a fine lever–action rifle, modified with a scope.

"You look to be the type of man who can get things done" the woman said. By her appearance, the very close similarity to Jackson, Alex ventured a guess.

"Ranger Ghost, I presume?" he said. Ghost nodded "I heard yer' a Courier, used to traveling long distances for a job to get done". He nodded, to which she said "good"

"Nipton, a town north and west from here, has been silent for the past few days; I want to know why. Make your way into town and find the answers to who or what has happened. I'd go myself, but Jackson would just get angry, and there ain't enough booze in this place to make that headache go away; not anymore, anyway" the Ranger said, nodding towards the saloon and its passed out occupant.

"I will be passing through there, so I'll inform you of what I see before moving on from town" Alex said; Ghost nodded, stepping out of his way. His gait suggested more than what he claimed.

Alex departed from the Mojave Outpost, a new gun heavier, and one step closer to finishing up this Primm business.

* * *

><p>The wind howled across the desert, dust blew in the torrent rendering visibility to only feet. Alex pressed on, constantly checking the map on the PIP–Boy to insure the correct course. ED–E was having a difficult time of flying steadily enough; the flying grit in the air scoured against the hull, sending out tiny sparks. The robot was becoming a ball of static, which interfered with the electronics the longer it built.<p>

A familiar sight came from the darkness, the winds abating in a short lull; a busted bridge over the highway, the entrance to Primm. Alex jogged and ED–E flew down the last stretch. They reached the fence, making for the Express building.

The door opened, long enough for the two travelers to enter, before it shut once more. Alex removed his hat, goggles and bandanna, looking around. The first floor windows were covered over in heavy cloth, glued to the frames with some homemade adhesive. From the smell which hung in the air it was starch mixed with water.

Removing his armor for cleaning, and to clean his body of the dust clinging to it, Alex made for the stairs. Just as the first floor, the second story windows were also covered in cloth. Johnson looked up from the book he held. The old man smiled as did Ruby.

"Evenin' youngster, glad yer outta that storm there; the misses was getting' mighty worried 'bought'cha" Johnson said, with a cheeky smirk on his face; Ruby scowled at her husband, whose smirk did not dwindle under the scrutiny.

"You hush up now, Johnson Nash; you'as just as worried" Ruby stood, book on the side table. She approached Alex, looking him up and down, taking in the dust on his face and the mud–sweat that covered him from chest to toe.

"Well know, you just go'on and clean yer'self up now. And you clean up whatever mess you make, young man" Ruby said, finger in his chest. Alex nodded with a short "yes ma'am" Descending the stairs once more to retrieve his toiletries, ED–E stayed upstairs. Scanning the radio waves for a good song playing at the moment, he settled for the New Vegas station, presently playing a Bing Crosby.

Despite well over two hundred years, the sounds of the old crooner still rang sweet and mellow. ED–E settled down on a bare cabinet top, shutting off the hover and flight systems to let the engines cool. Alex came back up the stairs, clean clothes and wash essentials in hand. He made for the bathroom, leaving the door open just enough to hear the music.

The bathroom was clean, and the plumbing was a jury–rigged system that delivered water by gravity from a tank atop the building. Just a pull from a hand lever and the water came out in a steady stream. It was cold, but Alex did not stay in long. He quickly washed his body of the grit; the dust mixed with sweat ran down the drain in a brown–gray color. Five minutes in and he shut the water valve closed.

From the sitting room, the host of the radio station was speaking "Good Evening New Vegas and all you listener out there. Its' one doozy of a duster outside, winds at thirty miles, gust up to sixty and seventy –five. I hope y'all are safe and warm out there. Should clear up some around nine tonight but it'll just be a lull before the real front pushes east. But I am happy to declare clear skies tomorrow, but the temperature will be gettin' low".

"And now we return once more to our week long program of The Shadow. Thank You for choosing Radio New Vegas tonight for all your quiet hours entertainment" the host cut off, replaced by a opening theme of string instruments followed by a manic cackle "Who knows…what Evil lurks in the hearts of Men…The Shadow knows" the laughter returned, died and replaced by another announcer, as old an gone as the old world he had entertained.

A description of the character, one Lamont Cranston, his girlfriend and abilities; Alex had retrieved his cleaning supplies at this point, sitting cross–legged on the old rug of the sitting room. He wiped the dust from his armor, liberally oiled the joints–he would need more soon–and cleaned every part of his guns, especially the new rifle from Jackson. It was well–made, simple and sturdy, firing the same rounds as the Varmint.

Despite the upcoming events of the evening, Alex was content. Ruby and Johnson sat in their chairs, the radio played a fine program, and cleaning his arms and armor was so routine it was second nature, done by reflex and muscle memory. He was cleaning the ten millimeter when Johnson spoke.

"Whatever happened to that fine revolver you had?" Alex stopped, remembering Eddie, Lucky and the promise he had uttered, understood by none: 'Nuntius tui fati ero'.

"Stolen" he replied, hands working of their own will; "I will get it back, though" Johnson said nothing for a moment.

"The desert is a cruel place, son, and the people who are broken under the sun are crueler still. Is getting that gun back worth your life?" Alex turned to the old man, locking eyes with him. He shook his head.

"No; it is not worth my life. But recovering the gun is a point of pride. I told the man who took it I would be back. I promised him" with eyes still locked, Alex finished "I keep my promises"

Johnson Nash did not know what to make of this young man, who sat in his home, cleaning guns and armor as though it was the most normal thing to do on an evening. He was grateful to the lad for ridding the town of them outlaws, but the way he put down that last one was…something outside of normal. Although, whatever constituted as normal in this 'wasteland' was to each his own mind. Normal was whatever a person made it to be.

Alex finished with the guns. Standing, two weapons in hand, he returned them to the pack downstairs. He made three trips until all weapons and his armor were in the office. With nothing else, he sat on the couch, listened to the radio, and waited for the calm predicted by the forecast.

"ED–E, show me the weather forecast" the machine uttered a sound as acknowledgment. The PIP–Boy screen showed a map of the desert overlaid with cloud formation of different colors to indicate severity. In the midst of the storm was a large gap, followed by one cloud of the darkest colors.

At eight o'clock, Alex rose. Now was the time to move; the storm still raged but it was reduced. Downstairs, he secured the guns onto the harness. Donning his armor, he considered the course of actions that would, with luck, occur without incident. At least to himself and the soldiers he would accompany.

Armed and armored, he whistled. A moment and ED–E joined him, radio off for this excursion. One final check, tightening a few straps and buckles, the two stepped into the storm once more.

* * *

><p>Alex walked, face covered by a wrap, goggles affixed to his eyes. A length of cord tied to his belt, extending back five yards. Behind him followed a dozen NCR troops, all garbed in armor and face wraps, weapons at the ready. They were under the command of one Sergeant James McGee.<p>

At first meeting the man was friendly; when the plan was discussed he was serious, asking two questions, and considered the map of the area surrounding the prison, indicating locations to place the troops in preparation for the assault. McGee was competent; perhaps under his leadership these boys would survive the night. Alex hoped so.

Looking back, he saw the dozen boys garbed in armor and carrying guns; among them was Private Quinn. When the lad had volunteered, Alex felt his stomach turn over. The boy was bright–eyed, eager to prove himself, hungry for his first baptism by fire. When Quinn was out of sight, he had shaken his head, massaging the bridge of his nose, trying to calm his nerves.

The plan of assault was to set charges at three points around the prison, and blow entrances for a double envelopment, drawing out the Powder Gangers into an open air fight. Once a majority of enemy combatants were in the courtyard, a third unit would crush the outlaws pinned down by constant fire on two sides, rendering them defenseless.

McGee had included Alex during deliberations, despite being non–military. He had no objections and understood the objectives, and so the small force had set off for the prison at Twenty–Thirty hours, just as the storm was abating though still offered cover. A forced march, more of a jog, to the prison took only one hour. The night was moonless, wind was low, and stars covered the sky. A tinge in the north was the only light, the only blemish on this night. All was in place.

McGee and three soldiers were north, a second east, of the prison. Alex knelt with the third squad, call sign 'Hammer'. 'Forge' under the Sergeant, and 'Anvil' under a Corporal Romero would move in first. Before that occurred, however, the sentries needed to be 'removed'. He cradled his rifle, waiting for the call to begin the mission.

The radio of one soldier crackled, a voice spoke, and the soldier nodded at him. He set eye to scope, and chose the two closest targets. McGee and Romero's squads would do the same. Alex waited, until the report of a rifle shot reached his ears. He fired and the target went limp.

"North One, down" "East One, down" crackled the radio. The soldier reported their target down, and Alex removed the second. Sentries dead, one soldier of the squad skulked to the fence of the prison, setting down and arming an explosive charge. Running pell–mell, the soldier hit the dirt, detonator in hand, awaiting the signal.

A double click over the radio; the explosion tore a hole in the fence eight feet tall and six wide. Alex held up his right hand, a command to hold. Peering through the scope, he viewed Forge and Anvil waiting at their points, rifles at bear to pick off the outlaws as they came. And so they did; muzzles flashed and outlaws died. He only hoped Meyers would keep his head down, preferably stay inside his cell.

The outlaws were pinned down and taking cover behind anything that might offer protection from the north and east. And so when Alex and the squad came in from the south, there was no chance. The courtyard was clear after three minutes into the operation.

Alex stood with the squad, looking for the Sheriff. The man was absent from the group of dead, thankfully. McGee approached as did Romero; they conferred with the leader of the squad Alex accompanied. Once finished, the Sergeant gestured for him to join them.

"With the courtyard clear, we move into the other facilities; we'll clear out the cell blocks and administration" McGee said, the other two nodding. Alex held up a hand.

"Administration is close–quarters; you either need hand–to–hand or draw out the outlaws. After this little stunt, they'll be cautious, and they have explosives which they will use" he looked at the administration building, an idea in mind.

"May I borrow a grenade?" he asked; McGee gave him one. Approaching Administration, Alex opened the door. Just beyond the door stood a small number of Powder Gangers, all dressed in Kevlar vests. They stared at him, and he stared back, pulling the pin of the grenade with the thumb, releasing the trigger for one second before throwing the device in, shutting the door, and stepping away. The blast nearly blew the door clear off its hinges.

Taking the assault rifle from his back, Alex set the stock firm into his shoulder, proceeding into the building alone. Six were dead in the entrance; the first floor was clear. He released the magazine from the rifle, replacing it with armor piercing rounds he bought from Nash; it held only ten rounds. Up the stairs, two outlaws stood guard outside the hallway leading to Eddie.

They hit the floor dead from two shots each to the chest, the Kevlar no protection against the hardened ammunition. The door to the office was closed, with Eddie ready for anything that might come through. Alex considered, then stooped.

* * *

><p>Eddie knelt behind the desk; the couch overturned with two guards bearing nine–millimeters. First the explosions, then the gunfire, and now <em>someone<em> was inside the building. He could feel the person just outside the door. 'Nuntuis tui fati ero' whatever it was that Alex Hugh said, the way he said it sent ice through his veins.

Eddie waited, breath shallow and ragged, heart beating against his ribs.

The knob jittered, the lock clacking in its frame. Both of his guards tensed, fingers on their triggers ready to unload the entire clip into the first person in.

The knob turned once more, this time staying opened. The door opened, hinges giving out a low squeak. A tall figure stood in the doorway, covered in shadow; bulky armor with an old hat atop his head.

Eddie fired the first shot, followed directly by the others. They fired until the fifteen round magazines were empty, the slides open and the hammers clicking uselessly.

And still the figure stood.

Two shots rang out, more of a cough than a gunshot, not even a flash of muzzle fire. The two guards dropped, both headshots.

The shadowed figure dropped through the doorframe. On the floor lay the bullet riddled body of one Powder Ganger, clad in Kevlar, now studded with bullets.

Alex Hugh stepped into the office. Reflexively, Eddie raised the pistol he still held, now empty. Another shot, a burst of pain, and the shattered remains of the nine lay against the wall, torn by the larger ten millimeter round.

Alex approached, pistol squared. He fired and Eddie let out a cry of pain as his knees shattered.

"That's for the beating" Alex said. He shot out Eddie's elbows next, to which the former gang leader roared in pain.

Kneeling, Alex unclasped the clips holding the Kevlar vest onto Eddie's chest. Positioning the muzzle above the heart, he looked the man in the eye "this is for stealing from me" and pulled the trigger.

The last image Eddie saw was of the portrait on the wall of the office. An oil painting of somebody; once his gang had taken the prison, one of the boys had colored over it to give the image a clown façade. It looked ridiculous, but he considered it a trophy so kept it. The eyes of the portrait seemed to stare down, condescending and superior, in his defeat.

Alex stripped Eddie of all valuables, and took last the leather belt and holster for the revolver. Lucky lay upon the desk. Easing the gun into place, the weight felt good on his hip. Descending through Administration, he stripped every corpse of valuables, to sell or trade didn't matter, it was payment for 'services rendered', at least that's what he would tell anyone who asked.

Satchel overflowing with weapons, ammo, and trade goods, he came out into the courtyard. McGee was rounding up survivor prisoners, holding them in a line, on their knees, guarded by four soldiers. Apparently the remaining outlaws were all present as McGee and Romero stood before them, giving them a speech about something. Alex ignored it.

Approaching, McGee turned, smiled and held out his hand. They shook "I'd say you did a fine job, but that would be an understatement" Alex nodded, and then gestured to Meyers, who knelt among the other inmates.

"This man I need for special reasons" he stated. McGee stopped, looked between Meyers and him; first confusion, until Alex showed the pardon letter. The Sergeant broke the seal, first read it quiet then aloud to all assembled. When finished the expression was mixed, anger and confusion predominant.

Taking the pardon back, Alex knelt by Meyers and unbound the new Sheriffs' hands. McGee spluttered, tried to utter a coherent thought.

"If you have a complaint, take it up with Ranger Jackson or your superior officer, Colonel Hsu: he authorized this after all, I'm sure he would happily explain. My job…" Alex turned to the Sergeant before leaving "…is merely to deliver him". He marched Meyers through Visitation, out the door and fence, and onto Primm.

* * *

><p>"Bada Bing, Baby" said The Man in the Checkered Suit, known to friends and certain coconspirators as Benny. He sat in a booth, surrounded by bodyguards. He honestly feared no man, nor women for that matter (rather he would be quite excited by the <em>threat<em> of a young lady).

Tonight there was no threat, tonight there was good music, good booze…and _good women_. Benny spied a blackjack table on the first floor. Three young ladies sat playing small bets, and he had ordered the dealer go easy on 'em. The girls won a few hands, lost some so as not to make it seem Lady (or Lord, maybe) Luck was with them.

One of them decided to go all in, shoving her fair stack of chips forward. The man dealt, cards turned. And the girls shrieked.

'Huh, she won' Benny thought, cigarette forgotten a moment as he watched them. The winner was a fine example of California grown, premium womanhood; svelte figure, long hair, black, straight and shining, wearing a crimson dress that showed off her curves.

He gestured at one of his boys, indicated the lucky lady. The girl was collecting her chips when the man came up to her. A brief exchange, a gesture, and she looked up at him. Benny caught her eye, and the wink caught a flush of her pretty cheeks. She spoke with her friends, and then left with the bodyguard.

Up the stairs and to his table, she sat, nervous, hands in her lap, occasionally looking at him, flushing, and then looking away. Perfect, the nervous ones were always easier.

They talked, of nothing greatly important, mostly about her. She answered, he smiled, and that relaxed her a little. He cut a few jokes, she laughed. She said something, though not really funny, he laughed anyway. And she relaxed more.

Benny ordered a few 'soft' drinks, just a little alcohol to whet the whistle. She said her name: Ashley.

A nice girl, loosened up she was funny. She leaned in her seat, arms on the back, with a fine posture which pushed her chest out slightly. Ashley, when confidant, was flirty and knew she was attractive and so used that to her advantage; they traded barbs, a little dance of two people seeking a weak point to pressure.

She raised a hand to her face, finger touching lightly of her cheek, moving back the hair that framed blue eyes and olive skin. 'Damn she's a knockout, down on the mat, flat on your back'. Benny gave her his secret weapon, the one that won hearts and opened the legs of beautiful young women. A smile, coupled with a stare to cut diamonds.

Ashley breathed, chest rising and breast pushing out, her flirtatious relaxation quavering beneath his scrutiny. Benny rose, but she remained seated, unsure as to what she was supposed to do now; leave, maybe.

Benny held out a hand, Ashley looked at it, then at his face. "Maybe we could talk somewhere privately" She took his hand, and he lead with gentle pressure toward the elevators.

In his suite, Benny opened a bottle of wine, red. Thousands of bottles were stored in the casino basements, most of them well preserved enough to be drunk. He poured two glasses generously and sat down on the couch. Ol' Mr. New Vegas played another Dean Domino, the smooth voice and wine relaxing Ashley.

She swirled her wine, smelled, and took a small sip, tasting the flavors of the old world long gone to dust and time, leaving only ruins.

Benny watched this woman, who spoke with ease and flirtation, yet moved and acted with a grace rare among women. He wanted her, perhaps even for awhile instead of the one–nighter originally in mind. Reaching a hand to move a lock of hair, she caught him, gently, in her fingers, played with his digits, and ran the hand up his arm.

She rose to her feet, fingers trailing along the suit sleeve, and made for the bar, hips swinging. She knew how to work a man for what he wanted. Dean ended the rendition with a flourish of that voice of his which carried across time itself, and everyone's favorite host came back on.

"Good Evening New Vegas; especially all the beautiful women out there, this next song is for you, my dear, but first some news of the desert" The briefest pause was enough for Ashley to speak.

"So…are we going to play or keep on this dance of ours?" She turned, wine glass full in hand, but shocked at the expression on Benny's face.

"A package courier injured outside of Goodsprings has made a full recovery"

Benny sat, unable to move; his breath was short as memories came to him. A graveyard, a man on his knees, pistol to his head; the man looked into Benny's eyes. Not at him, _into him_, light brown eyes…the mask of a demon.

"_Ut sementum feceris ita metes"_

"Benny?" the name was spoken with hesitancy, even fear. He turned to the speaker, Ashley, looking at him. Music played, wine and booze was aplenty. And yet he wanted none of it. Taking a breath, he looked squarely at his young company. That easy smile was back on his face, but it felt false. It was difficult to maintain.

"Hey, baby, listen; I just remembered something I gotta do, a little thing I promised a friend to take care of" Benny stood, approached her. She still looked nervous despite the flirtations and wine. He raised a hand, and this time swept her hair back over the ear, trailing down the pliable flesh, her jawbone, onto ruby lips. They parted slightly, eyes on him misted, leaning forward.

Bending at the waist, bringing their faces together, still running a finger across those gorgeous lips; Ashley leaned as well, quavering beneath his look. Their lips met, soft, light, right hand between her shoulder blades, left cupping her cheek. Pulling away slightly, she let out a small sound of disappointment.

Smile now genuine, Benny looked into her eyes "I'll have to take a rain check, but let me offer you second best". A small intercom sat on the counter of the bar; pressing the button, he spoke.

"Give my company and her friends The Room, for the remainder of their stay" releasing the button, one of his cronies responded with a curt "yes'sir". Benny gave her one last smile; the door to his room opened, the man gesturing for Ashley to follow. She looked at her wine, then at him. He took the glass, gave her a kiss on the cheek with a whispered 'until tomorrow', and she left.

Benny watched her go, and drank the rest of the wine. "What' a doll" he said, setting the glass down. He moved for the private room, his little work shop and home to his major co–conspirator. The machine turned, a stupid happy–face on its screen.

"Hey there, Benny, I sure am glad to see you again. Boy, that bit on the news was a surprise, laws yes, a surprise it sure was" Unbuttoning his jacket, loosening the tie, he leaned against the wall. The memory of emotions of the news report returned. The guy was alive.

Looking directly at the dumbass face of the Yes Man, Benny held up a finger right in its face "monitor every radio signal you can, as far as you can stretch it; hell, maybe Emily will rig up something to give ya' more juice, but I want _any_ mention of the courier monitored and reported to me immediately, got that tin man".

He was breathing hard, face flushed and heart thumping…and still that stupid face with that stupid grin looked at him. With a roar, Benny pulled Maria and unloaded four rounds into the gut of the robot. Something was hit because it fell to the floor, motor smoking.

"Don't worry, I'll fix that right up and be good as new by morning, laws yes I will, good as new" Benny left the robot to its task, almost running out of the room.

* * *

><p>Reaching Primm just ahead of the second wave of storms was a challenge. Alex and Meyers had to run by the last two miles before visibility reduced to zero.<p>

Finally back in town, safe within the Nash Residence, Alex found Meyers a pair of pants and a shirt just his size from a closet, to change out of the prison suit he wore. The Nash's were asleep at this time.

Meyers took the couch and Alex took the floor with his bedroll.

It was a night filled with dreams…or memories.

'_Chunk'_ the wood split beneath the blade of an axe head, still holding an edge despite its age. The young lad swung the tool again, splitting wood in a practiced rhythm so familiar it was second nature.

An older man, with hair of snow, and a younger girl, with hair of oak, sat at a table, reading simple books and solving word problems, to bolster reading and writing simultaneously, near a fire pit to ward off the autumn chill. The lad cared little for the temperature, heat rising from his body through the exertion.

It was a calm life, a simple life. There was food to be had, during good harvest, and stores of preserved goods for the lean times. Their home was small, but it worked. There existed neither harsh words nor vaunted expectations for maturity and ability. All things would occur in time, so long as time was allowed and given.

The scene fogged over, the calm replaced with fire, the peace with screams. The house burned, smoke filled the skies, and the entire world was black. The man lay, face running free with blood. The girl screamed; the man begged. The torturers laughed.

A spray of blood, and the girl screamed anew. One man reached for her, and from black the world turned red. _'Sic' 'Stab' 'Cut'_ a limp fall, and the roar of bullets. _'Click'_ a roar of fury, a man with eyes of a hunter. He spoke, holding the girl, not harsh but commanding.

On his knees, he wept. The girl came to him, held him. None approached. None dared. The hunter held no satisfaction, just a nod. On their feet, they followed.

* * *

><p>A gasp and Alex sat up. Sunlight cut through the windows of the Nash Residence. The smell of eggs and meat wafted from the stairs to the first floor. A grunt from the couch, and Meyers sat up, rubbing his eyes, hat falling to the floor.<p>

"That breakfast I smell?" the new sheriff said. Alex nodded, and a look of utter happiness spread across the man's face.

"The last smell of anything I had for breakfast was the gruel that was fed to us in that hole" Meyers mounted the stairs, descending. Alex uncoiled from the blankets and stood, debating: breakfast first or exercise. His stomach won out.

Downstairs, Ruby was serving Johnson, and Meyers sat, hat on a peg. Alex joined them; the radio played and breakfast smelled excellent.

"It's so nice to have a full table again, ain't it Johnson?" the old man smiled, happy for his wife's happiness. Having Alex around really perked up her spirit. He felt the same way, reminded a little of his own boy, wherever he was now.

Ruby dished out the breakfast and sat to eat. Before Alex or Meyers could pick up their forks, Johnson cleared his throat. The two men looked at the older who held out one hand to Alex, the other held by Ruby, who offered her left to the Sheriff.

Alex took Johnson's, Meyers took his and Ruby's. The elder couple closed their eyes and bowed their heads, followed by their guests. Johnson spoke.

"O, Lord, who dwells in heaven, we thank you for this, our meal, this grace given to us within this land of strife and suffering. We thank you for sending your servant to deliver us from evil, and for him to deliver us our protector. We thank you for the friends we have, the love we share, and the life we are blessed with. In your name and that of your son, Jesus Christ, we thank you. Amen."

The last was repeated by Ruby, followed by Meyers and Alex a second apart. The sheriff spoke up as he ate slowly.

"Where did that come from?" Ruby swallowed, took a drink of coffee. "A travelin' preacher came through town some years ago. Oh, maybe two or…three decades now. He read aloud from a book he carried everywhere, big thing it was. Said he traveled far and wide, from the east he came, far to the east beyond the desert and across the plains" Meyers listened, thinking, but said nothing further.

Returning to their meal, no talk broke the silence of morning.

* * *

><p>'Pack stuffed, stores resupplied, armor secure, weapons loaded and ready' Alex though, the mental checklist run over twice now. ED – E floated serenely, quiet of his usual playing of the radio.<p>

The door of the Express office opened and in stepped Deputy Beagle. Meyers was now the sworn Sheriff of Primm, which left the deputy to resume his duties, whatever those were.

Beagle, who reminded Alex of a mouse, nodded at him. He returned the nod. "Johnson spoke to me about your…attack. I took some notes, before I was captured"

Alex looked up, watching the man intently. Standing he gave the deputy a serious expression, under which the man squirmed. "Continue" he said.

"Well, I overheard them say their route would be from here, South and then East through Nipton, then North until Novac where they were to meet someone. Don't know who they were meeting or their names, but you have a trail"

Alex nodded. Taking his pack in hand, he secured the straps onto his shoulders and waist. His guns were tied down with reach, both pistols on his hips. The weight of the two irons felt good, Lucky on the left and his ten on the right.

Down the street, passed the gate, onwards south; Private Quinn was patrolling with a squad this morning. The soldiers saw him, and as they passed, each man snapped off a crisp salute. Alex touched the brim of his hat as he passed. Soon the town fell away.

'Nipton' he remembered the request of ranger Ghost about the town. The fact his assailants went through there boded ill in his mind.

_Authors' Note:_

_I honestly did not expect to take this long for a chapter. I have now exceeded my record of longest piece written in my life. _

_And so the search continues, answers to be questioned, and secrets to be revealed. _

_This, My Constant Readers, has been a thrill to write as I move closer to the moment and the characters to be met on the way. The next to follow will, hopefully, be shorter than this and require less time to create. But you shall never have a chapter of less than seven–thousand words, at the very least, per chapter._

_And so I bid you farewell for now._

_Tutor Veritatis_


	7. Nine Circles

October 25, 2281

Mojave Outpost

1000 hrs

A groan, a sigh, with gloved hand upon her face; she knew it was morning by the light that passed through the windows of the bunkroom. Little noise around, from the bar either; most beds were empty now of travelers at this hour, more so due to a 'pest' problem dealt with on the road. But she couldn't leave, because there was nothing coming. Everything was gone, except the papers.

Rose of Sharon Cassidy opened her eyes, but felt…different. Absent was the usual dry taste in her mouth, the needles in her brain, the feeling of sleep deprivation despite having rested for hours. Not that it was reduced, but it was simply not there. And she was in a bed too. She scoffed, 'must have passed out shitfaced, and some _noble_ soldier–boy decided to take advantage of the opportunity. Too bad I wasn't awake'.

Uncovering herself of the blanket she swung her legs out and onto the floor. Her pants were zipped and buckled, boots still snug on her feet. Cass was fully dressed, no apparent sign of drink–induced sex and the absence of a hangover despite the three bottles yesterday. Standing, she made for the bar. Lacey sat on a stool reading a magazine, or looking at the pictures probably.

Cass wasn't much of a reader, enough to know a bullshit contract from a legit and how much money she was making for a job; beyond that not much, same as Ma. Flexing her toes she remembered her mother curing, layering and stitching the Brahmin hides together into two tough skin boots. The pair could walk through Brahmin turds and come out clean.

"Hey, Lacey, what happened last night?" Cass asked, sitting at the bar.

"That tall fella in the leather armor treated you after passing at the counter. Again. Carried ya' to yer' bunk, told me to get some water and fixer, so I did" the barwoman said.

She looked at the barwoman, unconvinced "so a guy who just comes into yer bar tells you to get medicine and water, which you charge double than booze, and you bring it without charge" Lacey looked at her then "yeah, guess I did" Turning the last page, the barwoman set the magazine down on the counter.

Standing, she asked the drunkard Caravaneer "what do you want?" it was an automatic response, stated without actually needing to be answered. Most came for booze and beer; some came for pop, others to trade for water and food. Cass had been at the 'great pileup' Outpost for near on a month and Lacey knew without needing to hear the response what the woman wanted

Beds were free and booze was cheap, and Cass had everything that was left of Cassidy Caravan Company stowed in her pack: some trade goods, two fifty–caps, her caravan papers, the clothes on her back, and the namesake of the company itself. The caps were down to one twenty piece and two fives.

"Water" Cass said, dropping ten caps. Lacey brought out water, the drink of life in the wasteland, and placed it before the Caravaneer.

* * *

><p>October 25, 2281<p>

Nipton Road, thirteen miles to Nipton

1500 hrs

The Nipton Road wound through the desert, east of the Mojave Outpost and moving out of Nevada into California. Before him lay just another road, another highway of the old world, breaking under the heat and cold of the day and night

In the manner some people talked of California, one might conjure the image of the two states borders:

Nevada, land of sun–baked desert, uninhabitable save for a few oases in the desert, home to savages and death to all who come. A wild land, the nature of man, beast and earth set free of the trappings of society.

California, the haven of the civilized new world, a wave from the old world reborn to cast its shadow east, to bring back peace, a sense of complacency in which its people may feel comfortable whilst the internal integrity breaks down.

Alex ignored this line of thought, too much metaphysical bullshit. Instead he continued to place one foot before the other, venturing on toward his goal. Before him on the road stood a seemingly abandoned building, by the old soda and ice machines on the porch, he guessed a store. Checking the sensor, no markers appeared in any direction.

Approaching the building he withdrew his pistol. Setting the pack down, giving ED–E hands signals at which the machine tilted to the side, as if saying it understood, Alex eased the door open.

Dust filled the interior, on the floor and hanging in the air. The fine grit sand of the storm during the last evening had entered through every break in the walls, windows, cracks in the wood frame, between the floorboards. The sensor did not pick up any signatures within the store either. Relaxing, holstering the pistol, Alex walked slowly between the old shelves.

There were some things to be had but not much, bits of metal; some cans of food were all that was in the front. Moving around the counter through a door lead to a back room containing a desk with locked drawers, broken computer, and a safe; deciding on the safe first, Alex studied the lock. Whereas the one in Primm was electronic, this one was a mechanical.

Looking at his gloved hand, he shrugged and applied the device. The scanner revealed the inner working of the lock, and showing the tumblers. Examining the schematic, Alex retrieved his picks. Glancing between the screen and lock face, he moved slowly, carefully…

…_tick_, turning and pulling on the handle, the safe door revealed a fine cache, some old money, some ammo boxes, and a pistol. Another ten millimeter, this one however was rusted, the slide a ruddy brown encrusted mess. Other than for parts, this gun was dead. Retrieving everything, Alex set the items atop the counter. The desk produced a pile of bottle caps, one of which held another blue star.

In the bottom of a second drawer held a few scrapes of paper, written upon in an even hand. Curious, Alex examined them. While not able to fully read the context was easy enough to acquire. Nipton's mayor made a deal with Powder Gangers to enjoy the pleasures of his town, whilst catering to NCR soldiers as well. His gorge rose and anger burned in his gut.

If he met this mayor, first Alex would educate the man in double dealing, afterword throwing him onto the mercies of NCR justice. Standing, he folded the paper into a square, securing it within a pants pocket. Gathering the loot, he kneeled on the porch for a short while to organize and distribute the weight. Once complete, he made for the soda machines. A quick PIP – Boy scan rendered some advice as to acquiring the beverages inside.

Rolling his shoulders, stretching the muscles and tendons, cracking his knuckles, Alex punched the red machine first. The force of the hit violently shook the whole machine, dislocating old components. Three bottles fell into the dispenser. Retrieving those, using the same method on the brown machine, which dropped four, he began to stow these when a small difference between the bottles caught his eye.

The bottles of sarsaparilla were clean, new even, while the bottles of cola were…older, a film of age covered the exterior, and rust stains coated the plastic wrappings. Alex thought of this for a moment, deciding to leave it for later consideration.

Shouldering his pack once again, Alex set off for the distant town. A smell came onto his awareness. A pungent, bitter flavor assaulted his nostrils, traveled to the back of his throat and rested there. Looking up, wisps of smoke could be seen, rising towards the clouds high above the desert.

Walking up a small rise of the land, Alex gained his first glimpse of Nipton today. Smoke, thick and choking, rose within its boundaries. '… _hence through an eternal space, Where thou shalt hear despairing shrieks…through me you pass into the city of woe_', the unknown verse, unbidden from the Void, surfaced; a sense of dread settled within his chest, tight, bidding his feet away.

Checking the time, presently 1600 hrs, and the map, he estimated another four hours before reaching the towns' perimeter.

After ensuring his guns were loaded, he set off, albeit with a faster pace than the leisurely stroll he'd been using before.

About halfway to town, Alex spied two crumbled down buildings, mere walls at this state of decay. Their interest occurred when ED–E informed him of hostiles. Since the ants before the Mojave Outpost, the human and machine had set the warnings for contacts on the sensor to a vibration force, and the robot to utter a series of sounds.

Alex had committed a series of sounds ED–E uttered to certain meanings, namely communication, areas which promised shelter, and especially possible enemies. Rather than the knee–jerk reaction that occurred during the ant incident, he merely stopped, shouldered a gun and walked slowly, ready at a moment to drop his pack and find cover.

Alex did this now, varmint rifle in hand, with its scope it exceeded the service rifle given to him by Jackson in range. Stock firm in hand, butt into the shoulder, he stalked forward. The PIP–Boy was at such an angle he could read the heat sensor. Five contacts, presumably inside of the broken building; skulking forward, he spied one move around a corner.

Through the scope, the figure was a man, with bright green hair standing tall in a fin–shape. He was red with exposure to the sun and wore simple clothes of a dirty shirt and pants. In the man's fingers held a lit cigarette. Breathing in, the man looked up, and spotted them. A malicious grin spreads over cracked lips. Dropping the cigarette, the man shouldered a rifle and fired.

The round went wide, above Alex and ED–E. One round return fire, one dead hostile, with four more appearing from behind the blasted wall.

Dropping his pack and running for cover, while ED–E gave covering fire, Alex slid behind a rock. Rifle in hand, he sighted again and killed a second. Whoever these people were, their tactics were horribly ineffective. In his brief glimpse one hostile was crouched, firing with sighting, another was walking slowly forward, also firing. He breathed…

…'_chink_' a bullet struck the rock, flaking it and breaking the round upon contact. Standing, sighting, the two remaining came into view. Sighted. Squared. Fire, drop one. Right motion; pull bolt, chamber next round. Squared. Fire, drop two.

His heart hammered in his chest as the system shut down. Hand on the scoured, legs shaking, Alex breathed. A minute passed, and he made for the pack. Retrieving canteen and food, he ate, devouring the fruit and meat within seconds and taking a generous drink of water. Gasping, his heart rate returned to a normal beat.

'_this cannot be good for my heart, subjecting it to such bursts of adrenaline this way_' he thought. Returning the canteen, Alex shouldered his pack and made for the corpses. Each were quite unwashed, dust caked faces, dried flesh, cracked skin on hands and face. But nothing to identify any faction, just plain clothes. Their weapons, however, were not plain.

A forty–four revolver and nine mm SMG, with ammo for each. Taking these, he made for the other dead, retrieving other weapons, even armor from one man. This suit, metal, was bulky, spiked to appear intimidating. Alex wondered if it would fetch a good price. Rounding the wall, Alex found a small camp. Bottles littered around, thin bedrolls on the ground, and two ammo boxes, to reveal ammunition and grenades. 'my lucky day' Alex thought.

The sun was beginning to set and Nipton lay six miles up the road. The fires had continued to burn throughout the day, and the smell had grown steadily stronger, mixing with other aromas.

* * *

><p>His men grew restless, the dogs lay in what shade could be had with their masters within this desiccated township. The waiting was annoying, but orders were clear: the first person to walk into town would be the messenger of their power and their punishment.<p>

The Fox sat upon the porch of the former mayor's office; it was a cool place in the desert. Despite the cooling weather, the land still burned some days. Today was not the worst, 'no, certainly not the worst' he thought, drinking from the bottle of cool water the mayor of Nipton had kept in a private cooler filled with drink of many kinds. These were the spoils of conquest.

The alcohol was used for fuel on some of the fires; other bottles were broken into shards and used to kill some of the sheep of this place. The water was kept, and drunk with gusto. His men enjoyed the rest, and the dogs lounged in the shade with bowls of water to slake their own thirst.

Though they had a brief respite, The Fox ordered armor to be kept on. And so did his men follow his word. Of course they would follow him, these were men of the Frumentarii, the unseen blades before the Legion fell upon the land. Smiling, he drank.

A call from the perimeter watch sounded: the signal for another profligate as they came to investigate the destruction of Nipton. The Fox rose, settled his goggles and hound skull atop his head. Descending the stairs, his men gathered around him. The hounds sat at the feet of their masters, as was their place and the place of all who would stand before the Legion–a truly foolhardy endeavor, one might as well shift the course of the sun and stars.

Down the road leading west into town walked a figure. By this distance detail was impossible, except for the dark colored armor worn and the floating sphere which followed. Through wisps and curls of smoke the figure approached with a steady clip that spoke of experience and fortitude, of long roads traveled, many paths taken. The armor was of a fine leather make, stitched and plated together for ease of movement and strength in battle.

Breaking from the line of his men, The Fox approached this newcomer. Smoke drifted across their paths as they both stopped with ten feet distance between. The fire cast their shadows, elongated upon the ground.

The smoke cleared and The Fox beheld the man's face, lit from below and to the side by firelight. Strong features, an arsenal of weapons, powerful body. 'How…interesting' he mused.

* * *

><p>"…<em>All hope abandon ye who enter here…<em>" echoed from the Void

The smoke within the town center was carried upon the wind, and with it the smells of oil thick and choking, mingled with the scent of burnt flesh. The joined scents brought tears to his eyes and burned his throat, despite the bandanna once more tied around his face. ED – E was silent as well, aside from the engine noise.

The sun had set beyond the horizon, but the night was lit by the firelight.

Upon entering Nipton, the PIP–Boy sensor detected about a dozen contacts within the town center, where the most fires burned. Walking, Alex looked about. Bodies lay in the streets, some decapitated, heads mounted atop white – picket fences now stained red. Others seemed to have been chewed on; bite marks marred the flesh of arms and legs.

More bodies were thrown atop several burning piles of tires; one pile held a wooden cross with a flayed man nailed to it. Arriving at what appeared to be a main street; Alex gazed down the burning avenue. More wooden crosses lined both sides, men of both the Powder Gangers and NCR soldiers were nailed to these, their blood draining onto the ground.

Before a three story building stood what appeared to be at least twenty men, but distance and smoke obscured their appearances. Setting down the street–'_shrieks are heard, there lamentations, moans_'–the men of the two opposing factions, once enemies, now equal within their torment.

To his left and right, behind his retreating back and before his feet, came the whispered cries of pain, men pitying, seeking release where none existed. They called to him, asked him to end this torment. And yet he could not…

…he did not have enough bullets.

Before the town hall stood the twenty men, garbed in sewn pieces of leather, fabric, some metal pieces jury–rigged with buckles. At their feet knelt massive dogs, thick fur matted with blood both old and new, their muzzles crusted with gore. Their weapons were a mix of firearms and bladed weapons, mostly machetes made from salvaged parts. One man, the leader perhaps, carried two blades, curved and very wicked. Such a blade could take another's head with ease.

The leader, who wore goggles and a dog skull helm, approached at the same pace as Alex walked. Both met half way, sizing each other up before standing a mere five feet apart.

"And so you have come" said the man. Alex nodded as way of reply.

"Do you not possess the skill of language, profligate, or merely a tongue?" said the man. Eyes hidden, face neutral, Alex widened his stance, just a mere centimeter, positioning his hands for easy reach of his pistols.

"I have many skills, but am not one to boast; I prefer action to speech, but skilled enough for the latter". The man smiled, the expression breaking the stoic demeanor.

"Very well, then; I am called Vulpes Inculta" the man inclined his head, a slight motion. Inclining his head as well "Alex Hugh", looking around at the scenes of carnage, he decided wordplay was pointless.

"What happened here, before the destruction?" Inculta returned to the silent demeanor once more; though stoic, disgust was apparent.

"Every act of lust, gluttony and greed was enacted here, day upon day without cessation"

Gesturing to a row of Powder Gangers "these came in the mornings and fornicated well into the afternoon, imbibing drink and carnal pleasure with impunity from justice"

Gesturing towards the NCR soldiers "and these came in the evening, devouring pleasure as though it were animus, a drink of life" leaving Alex, Vulpes stalked toward one crucified soldier.

"This one was found with a girl no more than ten summer; on her knees did he demand she pleasure him" undoing the soldiers pants, Vulpes revealed the groin. What was left of it; in place of the man's member was an iron bar, merely resting within the destroyed flesh.

The soldier began to weep "please, I'm sorry…whatever you want, please just kill me". Vulpes turned to the man once more, stoic expression set.

"Silence, Sodomist!" pressuring the spike further into the flesh, rendering a scream; turning once more, Vulpes stood before Alex again.

"I am curious, Alex Hugh: you are well armed, perhaps you might kill us, or myself before you die. What is your next action?" In truth he wanted nothing more to do with this place, merely speak with Ranger Ghost and then be on his way to Novac.

"Judicium tuum non est meum, sed in manu Minonis" If Vulpes reacted to the statement in anyway, Alex did not register it. The man nodded once.

"One last thing before you go" Alex tilted his head to the side, a non–committal gesture to show his attention.

"Should you encounter any soldiers of the Bear in your travels, tell them of what has occurred here. Tell them the Legion will burn all before us, and it cannot be stopped. Their vaunted liberties, their exalted democracies and words of freedom for all will break as we march West" stated Vulpes, who now waited for a response. What he received was another tilt of the head.

"Farewell, Alex Hugh, wanderer of the wastes" Vulpes rejoined his men and dogs, who followed obediently after their leader. Once out of earshot, he looked around.

Most of the buildings were standing, but Alex had little desire to stay the night in Nipton. Seeing a two story building, he made for it. The place was a general store, mostly looted, but held another occupant.

The man looked up at the sound of the door opening. Seeming to recognize him, the man fell out of his chair and roared in pain. Alex could see twisted bones beneath his pants, which were so crusted with blood they could stand up by themselves. The man crawled on elbows and hands, as far away as possible, fear and pain mixing together with adrenaline.

"Stay the hell away from me! I know who you are, so stay away" Alex approached. The injured man was of the Powder Gangers, the outfit gave that away. But there was fear greater than the great injury to his legs.

"I said stay away Reaper!" Reaper? Where had that come from?

"What are you talking about?" Alex asked; he did not know this man and yet the man knew him.

"I saw you, at the prison," he gasped, sweat beaded his face, the shirt he wore was soaked, and the seat of his pants was already discolored from so many stains, not all of them blood.

"I went with some of the guy's, to come here for our deal with the mayor. When we were waiting for evening, we heard over the radio about the prison, how you came and killed Eddie and his boys'" and so explains the Reaper analogy.

Alex nodded, "what happened here? How did this start?" Pain, fear and adrenaline loosened his lips, and the story of the last hours of Nipton was revealed. Lust, greed and gluttony had built a town of debauchery, whores of all kinds, and easy alcohol. But the town mayor wanted more, which was offered, but a price was taken. The fraud had led to treachery, by the townspeople and their punishers, leaving behind a wake of violence with little equal. He asked one last question.

The man, who class himself Boxcars, "yeah, those Legion freaks and their dog leader took a bunch a' people outta town with 'em, headed west. What, you thinking of going after 'em?"

Alex shrugged, and Boxcars sneered "well aren't you the big hero. Why don't you help me first, hero, a few painkillers'll put me right to sleep, enough of 'em and I'll stay asleep; that sounds good to me".

Nodding in agreement, Alex pulled his ten and shot Boxcars. The man died in seconds. Rounding the counter to a door, he leveled and kicked the lock plate, cracking the wood of the frame and door. Up the stairs into a room which had been scattered around, he set his pack on the bed.

Removing the harness and securing it to his back, Alex descended the stairs once more. Grabbing the dead outlaw before he completely befouled the place, he threw the body aside, and set off at a jog west. He hoped it would be enough.

* * *

><p>2200 hrs<p>

Outside of Legion Camp

The moon shone down upon the land, the skies clear of smoke and the smell of meat. During his run west, Alex had coughed a number of times, spat up grey and sometimes blackened phlegm. Water eased the dry taste, but he believed the smoke and ash would take days to be rid of his body. But he kept running until he found the camp.

It was a small place, with half a dozen tents, a bonfire, and eight people bound together in a circle, hands, arms and legs tied to each other. On a hill above the camp, Alex had an uninterrupted view of the whole camp.

Kneeling atop the bluff, Alex shouldered the varmint rifle. Green light painted the terrain, and every man of the Legion was revealed. Upon first hearing of them in Trudy's place, he made no assumptions as to their purpose and existence. Now, well his interest lay in the captives.

Several scenarios played in his head: sneak and escape with captives–too big of a chance for discovery, patrols might catch. Distraction–might send off half of force to investigate. Frontal assault–could become stuck in one position, possibly overwhelmed. Combine two, however.

From his belt, Alex took a stick of dynamite, with a lengthened fuse. Taking a sulfur match from a pocket, he struck it on the ground; no wind was present to blow out the flame. The fuse lit, and he threw with all the strength of his arm. The stick went far, sparking into the distance. Shouldering the rifle once more, he waited.

The explosion cut the night air: a crack of thunder, rocks blown apart and into the air to rain down upon the camp, with a generous plume of dirt and dust thrown up. Just as thought, half of the force went to investigate, leaving twelve men behind.

His rifle fired five shots per clip, 'just have to be fast' he thought, and pulled the trigger on the first target. A head shot, pull on the bolt, chamber round, seal and fire again. Once the fifth shot was cracked, Alex bolted, around the camp and onto the flank of his enemies, reloading as he ran.

Atop another bluff, Alex killed five more, reloading for the last two in camp. Their disorientation of his movements allowed for extra time–enough to chamber two rounds and send them off into their intended targets.

A round glanced off of the rock he was using for cover. The weapons fire quickly increased in ferocity, pinning Alex. No cover to move for, too many enemies for the rifle.

Setting the gun aside, Alex pulled the grenade rifle, chambered a round, and waited. A break in the fire, however brief, was all he needed. When it came, he breathed…

…sound elongated, time became elastic. Turning, coming to a kneel, Alex shouldered the rifle. Down the iron sights he could see the Legion, weapons drawn; some were changing clips, others leveling their weapons. He fired.

Time snapped into normality with a roar from the grenade. The twelve soldiers were engulfed in dust, dirt, rocks and smoke. Behind the bullet scoured rock once more, Alex was waiting through the effects of withdrawal. Damn it was excruciating, but… diminished from the last time. He sucked air, and expelled slowly. Two minutes and he was on his feet once more.

Unsteady, Alex walked down the slope into the camp, weapons in hand. The twelve soldiers killed by the grenade were thrown around upon the ground in grotesque positions, limbs burned, scoured by debris. Their weapons were devastated, no more than scrap metal know. Holstering his guns, he looted their bodies for anything useful, and found a great deal when piled together.

He stole a pack from one tent and stowed the looted items within. All the while the captives watched him.

Finished with his business, Alex made for the captives, machete in hand. Approaching the group, they cringed away from him. He grabbed the wrists of one, a young woman not quite out of her teens. The sharp blade of the machete cut the binds around her wrists, ankles and chest with quick movements.

He gave the girl a short knife, looted from one of the Legion. "Cut free the others" he told her, proceeding to another captive. The girl obliged and began to cut. Four minutes and the group was free.

They stood, dazed at the events of the day, some were in shock, others shook with delayed reactions. Four men and four women stood within the group; the men were bruised, stripped of most clothing, the women were… mostly healthy.

"Listen up" Alex exclaimed, voice commanding. The group looked at him, shock and terror plain upon their faces.

"Scour the camp for food, medicine, weapons that can fire, and ammunition, but mostly the first two; and packs to carry everything. If you want to be away from hear, do as I say, and you will be safe"

The group split up, the men searching the bodies of dead Legion, women searching the tents. One, the girl, stood, just looking at him. She was not as insensate as the others, who followed his orders as automatons. This one still had fire in her, but she was intimidated. Not enough, however, to still her speech.

"Who are you?" she asked. The girl had dark chestnut hair with hazel eyes, which glowed almost yellow in the firelight. Touching his hat, "Alex Hugh, Courier, Wanderer, Merciful Mercenary I guess". The glibness caught her off guard, she tried to speak again but words escaped before spoken.

The first of the group began to pile supplies by the bonfire as Alex and this previously captive girl stood, she trying to speak.

"What is your name?" he said, the response was automatic. "Amber Li"

Tilting his head, Alex said "A pleasure, miss Amber Li". She scoffed and turned away; he waited, knowing she was curious. She turned her head, glared at him, turned away again, then asked in a lower voice.

"Why are you here?" he shrugged, walking around to stand in front of her. Amber did not turn away, but neither did she look at him, but at his boots.

"I heard some survivors were held by these slavers, so I decided to come by and… see if I could be of help" Amber turned on him then, an inhuman rage contorting her face.

"I'm not going back to Nipton… never! Kill me now, I'll never go back" holding up his hands to placate her, Alex took a step back.

"You're not going back to Nipton" he said simply. The girl visibly calmed, and Alex continued "Nipton is gone, burning to the ground as we speak. Nothing will remain by morning but ash." Tears ran down her face, falling to her knees.

Alex knelt before her, and she looked into his eyes, absolute joy marked every part of her young face. Amber reached forward and pulled him into an embrace.

She held him for a long minute, crying into his shoulder. Alex stood, dragging Amber with him for her to stand. Stepping back he offered the bandanna, which she used to wipe her face.

"Take a seat, rest a while, but we'll be leaving soon" turning toward the bonfire, a pile of loot stood before blaze. The rescued combed the items, distributing weapons, water and food. Packs and satchels were found; into these were stowed the various supplies.

One of the men hoisted and shouldered a bag, armed with a submachine gun. "Sir" he called, approaching Alex. Hand out "Corporal Jeremiah Wilks, NCR Army 5th Battalion; damn glad you came when you did".

Alex nodded and shook Wilks hand, "is this everything in camp, we'll be going back the Mojave Outpost, after a brief stop in Nipton. I gotta get my pack, left it back in town to chase after you all".

Nodding, the Corporal said "this is everything in the immediate camp, but I know there's a supply cache up in the hills. I know there are caves in this area, the Legion might have more supplies" Nodding, Alex tapped the PIP–Boy screen, sending orders to ED–E to scout the area. The machine whirred, and text scrolled across the screen…the robotic version of reluctant agreement.

ED–E sped off to search for caves, whilst Alex and Wilks organized the group, rationing water and food, ammo and guns, distributing weight where it could be effect carried.

About ten minutes ED–E returned, with a location. The machine led while Alex followed, also leading the group. Up the hill and into a low range, sloping up to a cave; service rifle in hand, he approached the cave mouth. Looking back, he could see the whole of the group did not want to enter, but neither were they comfortable with remaining outside.

"Enter the cave, but remain at the entrance, keep guard while I move in further" Wilks nodded, followed by the others. They entered, packs were dropped, guns in hand.

Alex and ED–E moved further into the cave, passing moss, fungus…and glowing barrels. The rusty containers were cracked while glowing green slime oozed out. The PIP–Boy let out a sound, indicating the presence of radiation.

"Move fast" he said, and his robot companion acknowledged. Down the paths, past more barrels, they entered a large cavern. Sounds from deeper within could be heard, familiar. Rats, except…bigger. One came around a corner, saw the pair of intruders, and hissed, rushing them.

ED – E let off a laser burst, burning the rodent and setting its fur ablaze. It shrieked, writhing, calling others. Beady eyes appeared from the darkness. Switching on the PIP–Boy flashlight, turning it to maximum, Alex aimed the beam at the creatures, hoping to blind them. It just made the rodents angrier.

A swarm of giant rats rushed them, felled by bullet and laser. Alex had to reload twice, taking cover behind a boulder while ED–E gave him time, distracting the rodents by descending just low enough to make them jump, firing a laser blast into the chest of each, then rising again to fire down upon the vulnerable creatures.

Rifle reloaded, Alex took careful shots with each round, targeting the head when he could, the torso when he could not.

Twenty rats lay dead after one minute. Alex breathed a sigh of relief; nodding at ED–E, the two set off further into the cave.

Within the cavern, atop an outcrop of rock, stood a chain link fence with a padlock; turning to his companion, gesturing at the lock, Alex said "would you be so kind". Two blasts and the lock fell, superheated until the metal fell onto the cave floor.

Wrenching the door open, Alex stepped inside. There were a few supplies within, food and medicine, some ammo…and a varmint rifle.

Seizing the gun by the barrel, Alex inspected the weapon. It was, however, different from the one he possessed: black polymer stock, a larger magazine, even a silencer. The scope was much improved over his current one. Inspecting the body, he found a white epoxy mole rat skull affixed with hash marks counting up to sixty–nine.

Holstering the service rifle, Alex loaded this new piece with eight five–point–five six rounds. Chambering the last bullet, he slid the bolt to lock in place. The machine worked well so far, the slide and bolt worked as though it were new, whereas the old one caught sometimes when he was reloading.

New rifle in hand, Alex and ED – E made for the entrance. All was quiet on the short walk, and the refugees still huddled at the cleft in the rock. Nodding to Wilks, Alex took the lead. They walked until the sun rose in the west.

* * *

><p>The sun rose upon ash and the rank smell of death and rot. Fires had spread and engulfed the crosses, which burned fiercely with tar. Blackened crosses and bodies hung in their final poses of death, or lay in the street as the wood had cracked and fallen.<p>

Yet Alex could see the general store he had entered hours ago still standing, blackened but whole. He lead the group outside of town, and then returned for his pack.

The group was silent as they traveled along the Nipton Road, and their immediate surroundings were silent.

Onto the old Interstate 15 and south, Alex could see the towering statues in the distance. Checking the PIP–Boy, the clock said 0558 hrs.

"What is that?" came a voice. Amber Li walked beside him; she had since leaving the slave camp, to the cave, and even closer now since Nipton.

"Personal Information Processor, model 3000" Alex stated. Rolling his neck, he continued to walk but knew the girl still looked at him.

"What does it do?" she asked. Amber Li had been quiet for most of the night and early morning; he reasoned her sudden curiosity was to distance herself from her ordeal. 'Best to answer; following such trauma, connection through speech is important for mental health'.

And so Alex spoke of his wrist mounted computer for the walk to Mojave Outpost, detailing its primary features, relating some conversations he'd had with ED–E, at which point the floating robot whirred, inputting his own opinions, some of which ended in sarcasm which brought a laugh from the girl.

She asked many questions, most of which he answered as best he could. Alex let her ask, allowed himself to be as open as possible for her sake.

And then she asked one question.

"Where are you from?" his steps faltered a moment but the pace continued without interruption. He looked upon the ground, at his boots as he set one after another.

"I don't know" he said. Amber Li looked at his face, eyes distant. Shrugging, she reached out a hand and took his. He looked at their hands, together, and then at her. She smiled, a real smile not forced for the sake of appearance.

Squeezing his hand, she let go, adjusted her satchel, and continued to walk. At the foot of the rise to the outpost were a collection of caravan merchants, trading information, news of events elsewhere beyond the wastes. Approaching, Alex hailed the group.

Once amongst the merchants, the refugees sold or traded weapons, some armor looted from the legion slavers, good and supplies. Provisions traded were stored in packs, and the money was divided amongst the refugees. Amber Li presented Alex with a fistful of ten red fifty caps, and five white one–hundred caps. He stared at the 'coin', then at the girl, shoving it back.

"I didn't do it for payment, nor did I demand" he said. She looked at him perplexed.

"Then why did you come to help?" she asked, he shrugged, the gesture meaning the answer was the same as his origin.

"So you help yet don't know why, it's just… something you do" he shrugged yet again. Amber Li held out the caps once more, this time with a smile.

"If you're going to survive, you'll need money. Consider it an investment for survival" Alex laughed, then took the proffered money. Safely in the pouch on his belt, he turned once more North bound, back to the Nipton road. Amber Li called out his name once more.

Turning, the girl rushed him, jumping and wrapping her arms around his neck. Alex stepped back to balance as the girl clung tight, almost choking him. She let go after a long moment, smiled, and then turned for the party of refugees.

Turning for the road, a satisfied smirk on his face, Alex walked.

"ED–E" the machine whooped and beeped "find us some music for the trail". The machine obliged; sounds of guitars and drums eschewed from the speaker–face.

ED–E swayed in time with the music; Alex smiled, a swing now in his stride.

* * *

><p>Along the road once again, through Nipton and into some mountains, Alex tread with ease. The day was warm but would settle around seventy. A breeze whispered through the rocks, accelerating within a mountain pass.<p>

Boots fell atop wooden ties, steel rails stretched before and behind. The sun rested at its peak, but as the days grew shorter and colder, Alex knew he needed to reach Novac before the sun fully set. His map showed the distance and his speed, and calculated his time of travel. According to the device he would arrive by, at least, 1730.

But the long walk, the weight of his pack and armor, combined with the sun and heat despite the breeze, stole away his stamina. Water quenched his thirst, but his canteen needed hours to replenish, and already he was half empty. His stores were adequate, but would need resupply soon.

So he walked, and the road slid beneath his feet.

ED–E had turned off his radio after some hours, stating a need to recharge his cells. The silence ate at his attention. The breeze churned up dust, blown into a frenzied, twisting cloud of brown earth pulverized over millennia.

The steel pathway stretched northward, well beyond this small range of mountains. He walked and the robot floated. Time was unknown and only the sun as it moved marked the passing of the day. Just as the canyon was turning to shadow, a structure came into view. Although to call it a pileup would be most accurate.

Old cars, mobile homes and trailer, set precariously atop one another in a general idea of what a small building would be in this environment.

Atop the highest sat a figure. From a pocket Alex pulled a monocular and peered through to see a man, wearing an ensemble very similar to that of Jackson and Ghost at the Mojave Outpost. The man sat, staring at him through a scoped rifle pressed into his shoulder.

Alex waved, stowed away the monocular and walked again. He reached the pileup and another ranger, a woman, approached. She wore armor, a knife in a sheath at her shoulder, and a flat brim hat with a small golden medallion featuring a bear and five–pointed star.

"Gabriel Stella, NCR Rangers" stated the woman. He nodded "Alex Hugh, Courier and part–time mercenary".

Ranger Stella held a mixture of surprise and amazement on her face.

"Hugh, I've heard of you. You're the one who assaulted the prison, right?" Alex nodded, and a grin broke out on Stella's face.

"Well hot damn, don't that beat all. What are doin' way out here?" she asked. "Traveling to Nipton; this route offered a shortcut" Stella nodded, her grin turned to a smile.

"Well I just came out here cause Steward up yonder said we had a visitor, and someone had to have a look, see who it was, friend or foe. And you are very much a friend; I'll get outta yer way" Stella said, turning back for the ramshackle outpost. Just as Alex was passing the northern wall, onward to his destination, he heard the Ranger call out once more.

Turning, Stella reached him and held out a device, "Emergency Radio, case you ever need an assist out in the Wastes. You get on that, state your name, and you'll get support. We Rangers are everywhere, you just might not see us 'til ya hear the first rifle shot"

Studying the radio, he touched his hat, and Stella touched her own in return, returning once more to her station. Stowing the radio away, Alex examined his map to lead toward Novac. The clock read 1400 hrs, and the remaining distance he estimated another four hours before arriving. Rolling his shoulders, and cricking his neck, he walked north.

* * *

><p>The sun set in the East, beyond the mountains of the Mojave; in that land was an unknown, for it was held by the enemy, the Bull. But those were not immediate concerns at this moment. No, right now the most worrying thing on his mind was NOT running into the night replacement for sentry duty. And dinner, he was hungry.<p>

Manny Vargas sat in a chair, old, rusted, cracked; it looked as though it wouldn't hold up much longer and yet it still did in spite of first appearances. His old rifle rested on his knees, a full magazine ready for anyone unfortunate enough to fall into the crosshairs.

But in truth, the rifle had not been fired for a couple of years now, not in anger or defense, only once a month at the makeshift practice range in town. He was a damn good sniper, and a damn good spotter. He used to be a damn good friend too, before HER. Manny gritted his teeth in anger, the thought of that wretch of a woman twisting his friend around her fingers.

Thoughts of Carla Boone evaporated as he made one last sweep of the landscape. He sectioned the land into five sections: Left, Center Left, Center, Center Right, and Right. Each section was observed for thirty seconds, then he moved onto the next, remaining aware of the previous and next sections all the while. It was a technique he'd developed with 1st Recon.

At Center Right, he spotted an object moving. Changing to Right, he spied two objects. Standing and shouldering the rifle, Manny peered through the scope. A man, followed by… a floating metal ball, an antennae array extending back. The man walked with a smooth pace, strong legs carrying him forward. The pack on his back was large, larger than the standard NCR issue. And it was full. It looked heavy but the man walked easily in spite of the size.

Manny lowered the rifle, considering. Not a trader, no Brahmin caravan; mercenary, perhaps. A damn good mercenary, judging by the quality of armor he wore. It looked to be custom made. He judged it was about time to change shifts; he didn't want to run into Boone as well.

When Craig had told him Carla had disappeared, Manny had jumped to the conclusion she had become fed up and left. He wouldn't put it passed her.

But Boone had seen the expression on his face; he gave Manny a cold look, and then turned and left the small motel room that served as his residence. They hadn't spoken a word for near on two weeks now.

Manny and Craig now shifted duties without meeting.

Manny would enter his room, Craig would exit his and take up position in the dinosaur mouth.

He hated it all: the situation, Carla, Craig, the whole damn thing. Manny sighed, resigned to the idea that nothing would change. Through the door and down the stairs, he gave Cliff Briscoe a half–hearted farewell. Outside the old foe–Tyrannosaurus, he made for the chain link gate which secured Novac. As he made for the mess tent down the old street, he caught sight of the man.

The stranger was tall–that was the first impression. The second was an air of confidence that eschewed in his stride, the set of his back and shoulders. The third was not an impression but a thought

'Shit that's a lot of guns' the man walked with enough of an arsenal on his back to take on a platoon single handedly, Manny thought. The man entered the motel office. Turning for the mess tent again, two thoughts persisted.

Carla Boone and why Craig was so angry, and the unknown stranger just know entering the little world of Novac. His stomach growled, and Manny walked a little faster, the thought of food blurring out other thoughts.

* * *

><p>Novac was… small, quiet, much as Goodsprings but to Alex, not as cozy. But it would be a place to get supplies, trade if need be, maybe a place to sleep. The main office was lit with oil lanterns, wherein an old woman sat behind a desk, reading from a well–worn book. Her crinkled face looked up at the sound of the door and smiled when she saw him.<p>

Rising to her feet, hands smoothing out her simple dress, she looked up at the tall stranger. Again, Alex thought how odd it was nobody noticed the floating robot that hovered just above his head. He revised his theory, if an object was not a threat, could not be turned into a profit, or used for personal benefit then people ignored it–shameful, really.

"Welcome to the Dino–Dee Lite Motel! Jeannie May Crawford, at yer service" she held out a hand. Alex shook; the grip had strength, as well as the pressing feel of bone into the skin.

"Alex Hugh, ma'am; I wonder if I might have a place for the night, along with some information" he asked. Jeannie May smiled.

"Well you can rent a room for the night at five caps, a month at ten. If'n ya wanna stay for longer, I can rent fer a year at one–hundred."

"Just the night, please" Alex said. He reached for a five cap while Jeannie May retrieved a key. They exchanged, and the old woman sat with a sigh. She looked up at him, craning her neck.

"Oh Lord, boy, yer too tall fer my old neck; come, let's sit and I'll answer what I can" she stood, and strolled to a sitting area of chairs and a couch. Taking a chair, Jeannie May waited. Alex set down his pack and hung his hat. He sat on the couch.

He asked general questions of food, water, medical supplies–this one she grimaced and told him of the local doctor, who kept supplies but not a great quality. Then he asked the serious question.

"A few weeks back, I had a run in with some unsavory characters. They stole from me, and left me in the wasteland. I'm looking for them. One wore a black and white business suit, and the others…" he sighed, unable to recall the incident fully "… the memory escapes me at the moment" Jeannie May nodded, thumbs twirling around eachother.

"Well I do recall one rather obnoxious gentleman coming into town a few weeks ago. Now I only use 'gentleman' out of habit, for he was nothing of the sort. Rude, he was; looked down his nose at us, him being one of dem' high falutin' New Vegas types; and his friends, well they was as rambunctious as can be. Them drank a lot over at the kitchen tent just down the road from here. I didn't hear much of it, but I heard they talked a lot to Manny"

Alex tilted his head and Jeannie May held a hand to her chest. "Oh I'm sorry, Manny Vargas, he's one of our sentries; keeps Novac right safe with that rifle of his. Used to be military you know, NCR. Yep, I'm right proud to call him our protector, him and Mister Boone as well. Uh, that would be Craig Boone, our night sentry. Manny takes the day, you see."

Alex nodded "where can I find Manny Vargas?" Jeannie considered, looking at an old clock in the lobby. "He's either changing shifts now or already has. If'n he's not there, then he'll be at the kitchen. AND if not there then in his room, but don't ask while he's not on duty".

"I wish they didn't but those boys are the only protection for this town, and they take such long hours. They're exhausted by the end of the day. I bring 'em snacks when their on duty, so as they have somethin' to keep in their bellies; they never take a break. Oh, such fine young men, they are" Jeannie May removed her glasses, brought out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes.

Alex stood and said "thank you, ma'am" retrieved his hat and pack, key in hand, and exited the lobby. He found the room on the second floor. Opening the door, the room was enough for one person comfortably. Setting the pack down, he divested himself of his armor, trading for a shirt and pants. ED–E rested atop a table with an old TV to recharge his cells.

Comfortably dressed, he buckled on his ten millimeter pistol. Without it he felt naked and vulnerable, though he felt comfortable not wearing his armor. Hat on once more, Alex made for the fake dinosaur.

Up a set of rusting stairs, the first door led to a shop. The proprietor, a black man, looked up from his book. Standing, setting his book down, the man smiled.

"Cliff Briscoe, at your service, and this is the Dino–Dee Lite Gift Shop; your just in time for I still got some Dinky the Dinosaurs in stock" Alex laughed heartily. "Thanks but no thanks; I'm here to talk to Manny Vargas" as he said this, the door opened.

Alex turned his head, and locked eyes with the man who entered. He was about Alex's height, more pronounced muscle, and wore aviator sunglasses with a red beret. The man's face seemed to be carved of stone. A bandolier hung across his chest, securing a rifle. The two kept their eyes fixed for an extended moment, until the man walked passed, speaking nothing more than a greeting to the proprietor.

Up the stairs and through the door, he closed it with an audible clack of wood against wood. Cliff Briscoe watched the sniper during this brief period. In the brief moment when the newcomer had said 'Manny Vargas' and Boone had entered, the man's face twitched: his mouth turned down in an angry grimace, arms tensed and hand gripping the door handle with force.

"Craig Boone, our evening sniper. Been in a foul mood as of late, ever since his wife left him" Alex heard but did not look at Briscoe. A moment passed, and he turned to the proprietor.

"May I go up and talk to him?" Briscoe shrugged "it's not off limits; just don't take too much of his time, he's gotta keep eyes on the surrounding area".

Alex nodded; up the stairs he stopped at the door, turning the knob slowly. It opened. In the mouth of the statue, the sniper sat in a chair with his back to the door, rifle in his lap. He shut the door, and then leaned against it. He did not need to announce his presence.

"You have any business being up here? If not, you might as well go, I'm on duty" Alex stepped forward a pace.

"I understand you are one of the two snipers" Alex said. Boone nodded, once, a single movement: back, down and then center.

"Me and Vargas both; he has the day. If yer looking for him, he's at the mess tent" Boone said.

"You know he is there for certain?" another nod "he always goes for some grub after shift"

Alex considered for a moment, then asked another question "I understand your wife is… no longer here" he watched the sniper for reaction: tension in the shoulders, the grip on his rifle tightening, taut muscles standing out in the neck. These relaxed after a breath.

"Ya, she's gone…" Boone said, a slight strain in his voice. "Do you know what happened?".

"No" was the only reply. Alex turned for the door. His hand was upon the knob when Boone spoke again.

"But I intend to find out, one way or another" Alex turned and Boone stood. The sniper removed his glasses and locked eyes with him once more, as though searching for something.

The sniper took in the man before him, the physical features he ignored. Boone searched the man's face, his eyes.

"This town, its people; I protect them, but since Carla went missing not a one will look me in the eye. They avoid me, Manny especially; they evade my questions, saying she just ran off back to Vegas. I know that's not true. She wasn't fit to travel, not alone. And she hated walking. There is no way she just left"

Nostrils flaring, breathing to keep his anger in check; Alex understood what happened was bad.

"Why are you telling me this?" Boone snorted "I need to find answers. I would prefer someone to trust but that's in short supply; since yer new in town, you'll have to do" Alex nodded.

Boone went onto describe how his wife was taken, and gave him a task. Ask around town and find evidence.

And when evidence was found, Boone would execute the person responsible.

"In cold blood?" Alex asked "there's nothing colder than taking a wife and unborn child away from their home".

At this admission, Alex breathed in. A wife and child: repugnant, unforgivable. He nodded. Boone gave over the red beret he wore, to be used as a signal for their final action.

"Best not to speak again until it's done" Boone said, turning back to the wasteland, running a hand over his shaven head. Alex nodded, through the door and down the stairs, beret in his back pocket.

The course of action would require an extended stay, he thought, question people around town, and look for Manny Vargas.

Alex breathed in a sigh 'why couldn't anything just be simple for once'.

_Author's Note_

_Hello again, Constant Readers_

_Throughout this project, I have received many reviews, favorites, comments, and much assistance from some of you._

_Here I wish to acknowledge the contributions of my personally favorite readers._

_Tom-Ato, thank you for writing detailed comments, yours have given me encouragement as to the writing of my finer details of the work._

_Gufetto… what can I say of you, my friend, other than you are my greatest aide thus far. Constant Readers, give thanks because it is of this person I gain my Latin pieces, created from this brilliant mind. _

_You may not care for the spotlight, my friend, but your credit is more than well deserved._

_Thank You for reading,_

_Tutor Veritatis_


	8. Wounded Warrior, 1

_A general warning to all reader: this chapter and its successor will contain themes of a heavy nature, depression and suicide will be apparent. Reader discretion advised._

* * *

><p>October 26, 2281<p>

Novac

2100 hrs

The red beret nestled atop his hand: brushed and pounded wool woven together with a silken cloth lined interior. A leather sweat band, stained and hardened from use, banded the inner edge. It was long used and becoming old, sweat stains could be seen in the fabric. The medallion of the military unit gleamed in the light but also showed age.

There was nothing obvious about the object which gave an insight into the owner, except one thing: two dates, and a message.

_February 23, 2278_

_October 15, 2278_

_Never Forget_

Scratched into the back of the leather band with a small knife, Alex had found it merely by chance. He was curious, but such a thing was not for him to know.

The evening was cold; wind blew fiercely from the north, across the desert and through the cracks of the old building. For now he waited, the time of action drawing near.

Certainly his first evening in Novac was… strange to say the least. But whatever was not strange in the wasteland would be so out of place it would draw attention to itself. Strange was the way of life and survival in this land.

* * *

><p>During the early evening, he'd manage to track down the sniper Manny Vargas. The man sat at the kitchen tent eating a bowl of green stew with… some unidentifiable meat inside. Alex had ordered a streak and sarsaparilla.<p>

At first Alex just sat and ate, until Vargas finished his stew, whereupon the sniper turned to him and said quite bluntly,

"you got questions that need answers to?" Alex had looked at the man in return, surprise at his perceptive analysis. Vargas shrugged.

"I'm not military anymore but that training never goes away: know what your enemy will do before he does" this statement was followed by a piercing look. Alex returned the look with cool interest.

"But does your enemy know that you know, and because he knows will he act differently, outside of the normal course of actions within a given situation" Vargas scoffed at this, and rose to his feet.

"I'm just a watchdog for the town, not a damn thinker. Find someone else for yer big talk" the sniper rose to his feet, and had walked five paces when Alex stated his intent.

"I hear you know about a man in a checkered suit" the footsteps stopped, and then turned back. Vargas sat down once again, gesturing to the cook woman for a shot of whiskey. He looked at Alex again, this time gauging and considering his 'opponent'. He nodded.

"Yeah I know where that guy went, and his name? But why do you want to know?"

Alex cut another bit of steak, now three–quarters finished. He chewed, swallowed and chased with his drink.

"He stole from me. I don't care for people stealing from me. And he tried to kill me. I don't care for those people, either. In all, I want answers." Alex said, an inference meaning more than the platinum chip.

Vargas nodded; he turned on the seat and looked out on the desert.

The sun was half–set, the western mountains were covered in shadow of twilight, the first stars of night appearing. The moon was out, and full. The night air was just turning crisp, but the baked earth radiated heat, pleasantly moderating the temperature.

"People are stolen from, and shot at all the time in this land. If their lucky, they survive, and move on; if not, they don't care about revenge. Family or relations might, but it's useless, really; revenge never did nothin' for nobody" Vargas said.

His eyes were cast, distant and far away. The sniper came out of his thoughts and looked back at Alex, who watched the sniper as well.

"As I said, I'm more curious than I want revenge. However," Alex said, removing his hat and turning in his seat.

"This is pretty damn personal, don't you think?" Vargas stared at the scar. He was aware of staring but could not look anywhere else.

The skin was ragged, stitched, mottled with healed flesh that was pink where the rest was a healthy colored tan.

Breaking the stare, Manny cleared his throat as Alex replaced the hat.

"Alright, I can see why you want to find this guy,… but, information has a price" The look on the other man's face was stone. Manny had seen plenty of men put that mask on, and knew it hid an irate annoyance, if not anger, or rage.

Holding up his hands to forestall a comment, Manny continued "there are a lot of commodities in the wasteland, all have a price. Information, however, comes at any price, beyond monetary means in some cases"

Vargas was being circumspect, giving Alex a roundabout runaround leading nowhere. Finally he got to the point.

"This town survives on trade, mostly of scrap that can be salvaged. But the closest source is currently over run with ghouls. So, take care of the ghouls and you get your information. Deal?"

For a moment, Alex wanted to stand, kick the legs out from underneath the stool Vargas sat upon sending him to the ground. Instead, he asked another question.

"I overheard talk of someone having left town recently; girl named Carla. Seems odd a woman would leave such a safe town, venture off to who knows where."

Vargas scoffed, looking back out onto the wasteland once more, watching the twilight move down the mountains.

"My opinion, she didn't leave soon enough. That bitch acted so superior to everyone. And she had Boone around her fingers"

Vargas looked at Alex again and saw the raised eyebrow "Craig Boone, the other sniper. Buddy of mine from the NCR days. Served in the same unit; we were a tight group: brothers through fire and Hell. Man, we were GOOD".

The long cast came upon his eyes again, this time cheerful with memories of good days, good hunts.

"The enemies of the NCR were our quarry, and the hunted never knew we were there, until…" Vargas mimed pulling a trigger with a small movement of the lips. Then a melancholy overcame his eyes.

"And then Bitter Springs…"

"Bitter Springs?" Alex asked. Vargas nodded; he breathed a long sigh, then took his shot of whiskey and drained it. He gestured for another and the cook woman filled it.

"Yeah; Bitter Springs. I wasn't there, called in sick, but the rest of the unit… everyone came back a lot quieter afterwards. I heard they killed everyone. And I knew people there."

Vargas went onto describe the events, what he knew of them, why he stayed behind, and his discharge. Finally, he rounded out with Craig Boone.

"Boone and I were a team, I was his spotter and he was mine. We had a competition of most kills, but we were always pretty even. After Bitter Springs, he had issues. I discharged a month after and came here. I wrote to Boone often, telling him about Novac, inviting him to come, but he never did".

"So a year later, he shows up, out of the blue with this sweet babe on his arm. With her, he had this big ass grin on his face, almost nonstop. I thought his face was gonna fall off. And then I met her. Carla Boone, second worst day of my life."

And so Vargas described Carla Boone, in unflattering detail, stating he was glad she was gone, packed up and left and freed Craig up.

When Vargas was done, Alex stood, intent upon returning to his room for the eve. Midway between the kitchen tent and motel, he heard a short whistle.

Looking around, he spied a man, thick beard and messy hair, both white. He wore ragged clothes, much of which is patched, sown and so frayed it looked as though it would crumble into tatters at any moment. The man was looking at him, gesturing, and looking at the surrounding area. The man gestured again, and so Alex complied.

"Yer looking fer' em, are'ntcha" mumbled the old man. Alex crossed his arms.

"Looking for who?" he said. The old man looked around, skittish, twitching, all the while mumbling incoherently.

"Dems who took her, the pretty one, always with him, one wit'te boom stick" the old man's eye twitched several times. Now Alex was intrigued. He leaned forward, the man cringed.

"You know about the missing woman" Alex asked. The old man looked around again, shook his head fiercely.

"Not here, always listening, everywhere. One place safe, one place, can talk. Safe. This way. Follow" the man took off at a run, faster than Alex would have guessed. He gave chase. Down the hill and the asphalt of highway 95, with a sharp left at the corner of Novac, across the edge of the motel until clear on the other side; the old man opened a door to a shack, gesturing for haste.

Across the threshold, inside the shack, the old man shut the door, locking it with four sturdy bolts and a chair. Alex leaned against a table, watching the old man, hands on knees, huffing, trying to recover his breath.

"So the woman who was taken, Carla Boone, what happened?" the old man straightened, eyeing him with suspicion. The old man drew a knife and Alex reached for his pistol.

"Hat off, let me see what's underneath" Alex complied, setting the hat atop a mannequin.

The old man approached, and Alex backpedaled, watching the knife and the eyes alternatively. Turning the handle over, the old man thrust the blade into a table, to which he pointed, staring at Alex.

"Gun" he said. Pulling the pistol, Alex set it atop the table next to the knife. The old man moved toward a lantern, not diverting his eyes.

The old man struck a match, opened a lantern and lit the oiled wick. The flame burned brightly, and the old man set the lid back. Approaching, Alex tensed.

"I need to be sure if they got to you too" said the old man. Pointing, he said "what there?" Reaching, Alex touched his bullet scar.

"A scar, from a bullet; someone tried to execute me" the old man looked relieved.

"Good, yer one of us, a fighter! Never let them take you down, son, keep fighting and be free" said the old man. Alex relaxed, somewhat.

"What's your name, old timer?" the old man chuckled which turned to a cackle.

"Folks 'round here call me No–Bark, but that's not my real name. No I keep that to me'self. Kept it so secret, I plain forget it now" the cackle returned.

"I don't mind so much, folks believe what they will, and I just live here. I watch, I listen. One day, they'll come, and I'll be the only one to fight 'em off" Alex nodded.

"Carla Boone, the woman who was taken?" No–Bark nodded, his wild hair flopping with the vigor of the motion.

"Mmm, dems' come at night, shadows hiding their movements. They move quiet, and open the door. De' come out again, someone tied up carried between two of 'em. Move off and let the shadows take 'em again, but one stays a spell, goes in'ta yonder room, at the gate. Don't know why? Coffee? Tea and crumpets? Some… civil discourse? Don't know. Do know one went in, came out again, disappeared wid' de' rest of 'em"

Alex had a suspicion, and hoped he was wrong. He retrieved his hat and pistol. Just as he made for the doorway, No–Bark uttered one warning.

"Be careful of dem' molerat men; they'll take yea's below, make ya grow hair and shave it off fer der wigs". Alex turned, tipping his hat to the man.

"I'll watch my back. Thanks."

* * *

><p>And so Alex waited, and tried several tasks to occupy his mind. Oiling his armor took some time – and with this the reminder for more oil. If he asked at the kitchen, perhaps he could find animal fats to render.<p>

Cleaning his guns was another that occupied his attentions. His ten millimeter was familiar, the machine so well known to his hands he could have done it blindfolded and timed. Lucky was a pleasure, inspecting the intricate work, cleaning each space meticulously and polishing the body until it shone in the light of his room lantern.

His new rifle was interesting as well: the polymer body was light, almost weightless in his hands, and the machine was… there was no other word for it. It was beautiful, each part devoid of rust, and the smooth action of each piece of metal moving as a whole was a silent orchestra.

He had decided to christen the weapon; its white epoxy skull and hash marks denoted a long reputation of hunting vermin, of reaping lives for others benefit.

The gun would be called _Rati Confector_.

Assembling the rifle once more was a blur as the now familiar parts fitted seamlessly. Standing, Alex took the rifle out onto the balcony. The wind whipped at his shirt, and hair blew in his eyes. Reaching up, he brushed the strands away, feeling its length for the first time. It was not _long_–just an inch and a half–but thick. Feeling his cheek, hair had grown as well, wire thick and curled. It felt unfamiliar, as though he had never had a beard before.

Shrugging, putting aside the sensation of hair on his face, he knelt. Through the scope the world turned green, a sharper, cleaner image than the scope acquired from Chet in Goodsprings. His left hand gripped the end of the stock just before the barrel. The butt rested into his shoulder, right hand on the trigger within easy motion of the bolt. He searched the landscape for targets.

He found one: at first it appeared to be a person, but was in fact a cactus. Alex smiled. In this wind, the round would go wide, and the distance he estimated about one–hundred yards. The wind, lack of illumination and impromptu stabilization on the balcony railing would make this shot… interesting.

* * *

><p>Boone rubbed his bare head once more. He never took off his beret, only when he slept. He didn't sleep much, not since taking up sentry duties for Novac. Now, sleep came even less so. He didn't want to think about it, a lot of things he did not want to think about. That was easier, just go through the motions, don't think just do what you need to do. It didn't work at times.<p>

Occasionally he saw their faces, of those he killed. Every person who fell into the crosshairs, everyone a bullet struck down. Even when he slept, the crosshair was burned into his eye. It never left. When he slept, he could smell cordite, the kick of the rifle into his shoulder, the splinters from the wooden stock digging into his face.

After… that day, he did the same: go through the motions, don't think. It made being alive easier, made the actions that occurred seem… disconnected, somehow

After, Boone had gotten some leave; he went home, to be with family. His father was NCR, though not a sniper, Infantry. Arthur Boone understood, though. He'd taken Craig aside, sat him down with a snifter of whiskey, and they just sat, glasses untouched. And Boone senior told his son one thing.

"A soldier is a weapon; that uniform, that gun, turns you into a tool for others. But take off that uniform, put that gun down, you're just a man. And a man needs his rest." Craig had just nodded, down his whiskey, and then his mother had called the two Boone men for supper.

And then he returned, to the desert, the punishing sun, the barren land of cacti and the lights of New Vegas.

Some of his buddies had been scattered to the three 'corners' of Vegas – The Tops, Ultra–Luxe and Gomorrah. Craig sat on a park bench, not moving, not hearing and not seeing the world. He was completely oblivious to his surrounding; probably how that girl managed to sneak up on him. He still remembered what she said.

"You look lost, soldier boy" it wasn't sweet or melodious, not the singing of angels and harps. Nope, this voice was sharp, even when spoken softly; it made people listen, whether they wanted to or not. Boone looked up; before him stood a young woman, wearing a cream colored dress which appeared seamless with her cream colored skin. Blond curls draped across her shoulders.

As she stood in front of him, dressed up, hair down, confidant and sarcastic smirk on her face, with the lights of the casinos behind her, she appeared from… another time, some place that was better, easier. Rather than answer, Boone shrugged, then stared up into the sky. The bright lights stole from the stars, rendering the tiny points invisible. Looking back, the girl was still there.

"Mind if I join you?" The simple question perplexed him, but he moved on the bench to accommodate her. She sat, and then talked… a lot. About herself, her family, friends. And, Boone just listened, to that voice that pulled your attention in. He just watched her, her lips moving – colored and glistened in the light – her hands moving, accompanying her speech.

Eventually, she stopped talking with an embarrassed look on her face.

"I'm so sorry, I've been talking all this and I don't even know your name. I'm Carla." She stuck out her hand and Boone shook.

"Boone" he replied. Carla looked at him, amused and confused in equal measure.

"Just Boone, no first name or last name" the sarcasm and smirk had him tripping over his feet.

"Craig" he said, finally. An NCR First Recon sniper tripped up by woman, how embarrassing.

Carla laughed "so is it Boone Craig or Craig Boone?"

"The latter" Boone said lamely. If the guys and the others saw him they would never let him live this down. Carla laughed again, hand to her face, eyes scrunched.

Standing, Carla turned "Well, Craig Boone, what are you sitting out here for? You know, in the old days, a handsome soldier in uniform might find a nice girl and have a night on the town. I guess you'll do for the soldier–part" and then she took his hand, urging him to follow.

That night… well, 'perfect' was not in his vocabulary. But that night was pretty damn close. They danced a few hours–Carla needed to instruct him in that–she won some money at slots and bought drinks, she talked more, and then they danced again, and Boone was… well not great but he stopped having two left feet. He was on leave for a week, and nearly every moment was spent with Carla. Best week of his life.

He wrote to her after going back to duty. He wrote a lot of letters, but not a lot of words. When his rotation brought him back to Vegas, he wrote a letter to meet him at The Tops, her favorite joint. It wasn't long before he asked her, finally.

Boone had to work up the courage, but he did it. He asked her to marry him. And she said yes.

Pulling himself out of the memories, Boone scanned the landscape around Novac, chastising himself for the lack of focus. He shouldn't think. It was easier that way. Don't think, just do. A figure, Center Left, ninety yards out. He brought the rifle to bear, eye to the scope.

And then froze when he saw it was just a cactus. The same damn cactus that had been wandering into his attention for weeks since he first spotted it. Every night he swore to go out and cut the thing down, and every morning when it was time for rest, the cactus was gone from his mind. Every night was the same.

Go on watch, start thinking, then stop thinking, search around, spot the cactus and don't shoot. It was just a cactus. But it pissed him off tonight.

Setting his eye to the scope once more, Boone found the offending piece of desert foliage. It was vaguely human in shape, arms held up as though in surrender. The wind tonight would make any shot difficult. But a former NCR sniper had no such worries.

Boone sighted, elevating the barrel slightly above the cactus to compensate for distance, and slightly to the right to compensate for the wind direction. Target fixed, breath in… out, steady pressure on the trigger…

…the cactus jerked from impact, but the bullet had not left his chamber. Boone still held the trigger, half depressed. Shocked by the impact, the wind took care of the rest. It lay back on the dirt of the Mojave. The position reminded him of a target dummy, the ones you shoot and they lay back on a spring mechanism.

Someone else had shot the cactus. But Boone heard no report of a rifle; even in this wind a rifle would still crack loud enough to be heard, even in the mouth of this stupid dinosaur statue.

Standing, Boone stuck his head out of the dino mouth, looking for what or whoever shot the cactus. One door stood open, dim light from within cast the shadow of a prone figure. It was a man, holding a short weapon in his hands. The man turned for the door, entered and shut out the world.

Boone sat back in the chair, thinking. Yes, he was thinking now. The rifle was not a three–zero– eight, it was too short. Beyond that, he did not know. A bitter laugh, more of a bark; him not knowing: could be said for a lot of the things that had happened in his life. Not knowing what to do.

* * *

><p>Alex settled the <em>Rati Confector<em> inside of the closet within the room. His armor was there as well, along with the Service Rifle, itself serviced with a conservative amount of oil, mostly from the cloth he'd been using. His shotgun, Lucky, and grenade rifle were held within as well. Tonight, all that would be necessary is the ten millimeter. And his hat, of course; it felt right to wear, proper.

Sitting on the bed, Alex examined the hat. It was used, well cared for and old. The crown was adorned with stitch work in an overlapping figure which looked to be the number eight; a feathered pin, held by a clip onto the leather band; a large tooth of some creature; and an arrow head, black. It looked crowded, but rather handsome. Checking the clock, it was time to go.

Standing, hat secured, checking the holster and belt, pistol clips–all squared away. The door to the room opened, and Alex stepped beyond the threshold. Descending the stairs, past the gates, he crouched at the lobby window. It was covered in grime and heavily stained. Three swipes of a cloth partially cleared up the layer of grime. Inside the place was empty, lights out. Door locked.

Taking the picks from the pocket of his boot, Alex toyed with the mechanism. It was not difficult and the lock sprang easily. Opening the door a crack, he sidled in. Switching the PIP–Boy light to narrow beam, he skulked behind the desk. Small cabinets and a cash register occupied the area.

Searching he found money, old and new, some books stowed away in a cupboard, and of all things a nine millimeter pistol and a twenty-gauge shotgun, both with several boxes of ammunition. There was nothing here for him to find. Alex was near to giving up the search, when the floor mat upon which his boot rested, slid some feet to the right.

Turning he moved to replace the mat when the light caught a metallic edge. Pulling the mat further, it revealed a floor safe… an electronic floor safe. Alex smiled, resting his hand atop the metal surface. Blue light emitted from the glove, grid lines circled the face of the safe. The PIP–Boy screen showed a code slowly deciphered. Three seconds and the locks released.

Pulling on the safe door, he examined the contents by light. Within the safe were a sack of fifteen white bottle caps, a box of three-fifty-seven rounds with an accompanying revolver, and an envelope of vellum with a note within. By the light the words he could see, but not fully form sound from the organization of letters. But he did understand the circumstances of Carla Boone's disappearance.

The note brought thoughts of the Nipton refugees, tied as cattle for their masters. His breathing deepened, and his mind filled with a familiar certainty, a similar sensation when Eddie had taken Lucky.

Standing, moving, tucking the pouch of 'coin' into his pocket and folding the receipt into a small pouch in his hat, Alex exited the lobby.

Down the street Alex went. Wind blew dust around his ankles; gusts beat his face with a cold slap that spoke of colder weather yet to come. He spotted and made for one house in particular, one that said 'Crawford' painted on the mailbox in a looping connected scrawl. The moment he stepped passed the old white picket fence is when he heard the scream.

But it was not human. Turning, in the distance, he saw a Brahmin attempting to run away, however it was held by the tail. The force that held the tail, however, was unseen. And then the blood came.

The Brahmin screamed, straining against its own tail and the force that held it, as though tearing off the appendage would be worth escaping the threat which now beat the two–headed bovine on its hindquarters. Blow after blow landed, blood flowed and bones broke.

Alex reacted upon instinct. Drawing the pistol, leveling where he assumed whatever held the cow was located and fired once. The cough was unheard but a shout of annoyance and pain emanated from the air. And then a shimmer, as heat rising from the ground, began to solidify into a creature. Blue skin and eight feet tall, the beast appeared human, but in its face could be seen its nature.

Crazed, angry, and barren of rationale thought, the beast turned, holding both the Brahmin and a two foot long club with a head of concrete atop a rebar handle. The creature slid the handle into a loop on its belt, and took from its back a massive gun. Six barrels upon a rotating axle, with boxes of ammunition tied onto the belt whereupon the club rested. And it was aimed at Alex.

Instinct, again, which placed him into this situation, now propelled him to run. A whir of machinery rose in the night air, followed by a constant stream of rounds tearing up the asphalt paving of the old road. But for Alex, one moment he stood before the blue–skinned creature and its weapon, the next moment he was sheltering behind a wall of an abandoned house.

Bullets tore into the frame, destroying walls, window frames, doors that still stood after two–hundred years. The creature kept up a constant stream of fire, until something broke… or the ammo was exhausted. Alex honestly did not care. His ears rang from the scream of the bullets, flakes of house fell from his hat as he stood, pistol still gripped. Rounding the house, he leveled the pistol.

The creature shook its weapon, yelling at it, demanding it work. Alex whistled. The beast looked at him first, and then his pistol. Rather than afraid, it appeared angry.

"NO! YOU NO SHOOT ME! I SHOOT YOU, PUNY HUMAN! THEN BERTHA WORK! THEN KILL BRAHMIN" the creature screamed again as it dropped the named weapon, running at him with club in hand. Alex aimed low.

He shot four times, two in each calf for the muscles. Apparently he hit something as the creature stumbled and fell, the calves punctured. The creature was screaming on the ground, hitting its fist and club onto the asphalt, cracking both the pavement and concrete head until the impromptu mace broke into two halves.

People were opening their doors, to see where the commotion was. When they saw the lone man, and the pistol he carried, they were amazed… and then terrified as the creature rose onto its hands and knees, crawling as a baby would. Alex had no time to react before the thing grabbed him around the torso, pinning his arms and pistol to his sides.

"I Eat You, Stupid Human. You Hurt Me, Now I Hurt You" it said. Opening its mouth, the creature brought Alex to meet the opening, which seemed cavernous before his eyes. He smelled the rancid breath, saw mold blackened teeth. He shut his eyes.

A report of gunfire resounded in the night, the staccato of rapid fire. The creature jerked and bucked beneath the onslaught. It dropped Alex, he rolled away as the creature fell. Just before the thing met pavement, he reached underneath to grab his hat as it fell off when he rolled. The creature hit pavement with a smack of bone and dead flesh.

Bullet holes riddled the creatures' back, and the shooter made himself, or itself, present.

"Daw–gone Super Muties, always stirrin' up trouble when good folks's tryin' to sleep! Well we took care o' him, ah Pardner" Victor laughed, the grid which thrummed with light as it spoke flickering as it chuckled. Alex was unsure of what had just occurred. He'd been saved, for a third time now, by the same machine. Rather than comment on this… fortuitous coincidence, he stooped for the fallen pistol.

"I guess I owe you again, Victor" Alex said. The machine waved off the comment.

"Don't think much of it, it's what I do" if the machine had a real face it would probably have winked just now. Alex nodded, and turned for his original destination, to which he found Miss Crawford already at her door, wearing a nightgown that swept down to her feet.

Approaching, tipping his hat in greeting, "Ma'am, there's a situation that requires your presence. Please follow me".

Jeannie May looked stunned; after just witnessing one of her guests nearly eaten by a beast, and subsequently saved by a cowboy robot, which had just gunned down said creature in a hail of rapid fire, and now the man stood before her as though nothing of great importance had just occurred, asking for her to accompany him to wherever it was about this 'situation'.

She nodded; turning back into her house for a shawl to wrap around her shoulders for the wind, Jeannie May walked with the young man up to the motel.

* * *

><p>Boone watched the conflict between the nightkin and the new visitor to town. The guy handled himself well until he was grabbed. He would have sent a round through the ugly bastards' skull had the robot not shown up.<p>

He remembered that model from Vegas: Securitron, but he'd never seen one in the wastes. For some reason now, the new guy was walking with Jeannie May toward the dino. The old woman walked with a purposed stride, legs moving in spite of her age, the guy easily keeping pace with his much longer legs.

Boone watched the pair, walking with intent; they passed the lobby, down the chain link fence, passed the dino statue, and came to rest at a cliff edge fifty yards down range… directly before his position. He couldn't think, and so he acted. His leg shot back into the chair, sending it falling backwards to lean against the door. He knelt, bringing the scope to eye level.

He examined the two figures in the near distance. Jeannie May was looking north somewhere, searching. The new guy stood with her, not looking north but at the woman. Faintly, in the back pocket, Boone saw a familiar patch of red–his beret. Heart thudding, a deafening orchestra of drum beats in the ears, he watched every detail of the moment before his eyes.

Jeannie May was looking up at the stranger, answering a question, smiling, patting his shoulder, nodding and then turning back to survey the landscape.

Turning, the stranger locked eyes with Boone through the scope. It was unnerving to look a man in the eye with crosshairs over his forehead. He pulled the beret from the back pocket as he walked away.

And so… well Boone really didn't know what happened. Instinct… blood thirst. That's all he knew. It was as though his rational mind shut down, old training and habits taking over for thoughts and actions.

The man behind the scope was a hunter, not a human. The hand came up, touched the bolt. Pulled up and back. The firing chamber opened. The hand reached into a pocket. It pulled a single round. The metal casing bore a single word, written in red. It was blood, with a small dab at the bullet tip.

'Blood for Blood' the bullet said. The hand set the round into the firing chamber, gripped the bolt and slid it closed. The hand gripped the stock, the eye set to the scope.

Jeannie May had turned, saw the stranger had left. She now faced the crosshairs.

The hand pulled on the finger.

The finger pulled on the trigger.

The trigger released the firing pin.

The firing pin struck the primer of the round.

A single spark lit the powder.

The powder burned.

Gas forced the bullet from the shell.

The bullet spun in the barrel.

The barrel let out a mushroom cloud of smoke and gas as the bullet flew.

Jeannie May Crawford never felt the bullet as it entered her skull. She took a single step back, an involuntary motion as the brain died.

The body fell back, and then over the cliff. Below was a nest, occupied by other residents of the wasteland. The creatures approached, smelled the fresh meat, and soon devoured even the bones.

A knock came at the door of the dinosaur mouth. Boone turned, opened it. On the threshold stood the stranger. A moment of silence stretched.

"What was your name?" Boone asked

"Alex Hugh" was the reply. Boone nodded.

"Why an little old lady, who runs a motel in the middle of nowhere and acts as a quasi–mayor of a ramshackle town?" posited the sniper. Alex gave over a note. Boone read the paper.

When the sniper handed the paper back to Alex, Boone looked… well, he did not appear to be alive. He just nodded, turned and sat on the chair again, just watching the landscape through the view of fake–dinosaur teeth.

Alex set the beret by the chair, and then left the man to be with his own.

* * *

><p>The landscape was unchanging, days were always the same, the sun moved upon its course, the moon waxed and waned. It all seemed… static to the eye of man.<p>

Craig Boone saw it differently. The land was a plain of fire, every day was a year, every night a decade. The sun rose and burned the land, the moon took its place and brought with it the cold.

Time was not static, it did not move from day to day, onto years and centuries.

It simply did not exist… for Craig. It was without noise or motion that he watched the land. When the dawn came it was unheralded. When his mind said 'sleep, Manny's turn' his body acted without prior thought to do so.

The door; the stairs; Cliff Briscoe; the door; the stairs; the dirt; the pavement parking lot; the door; the room. Craig looked around the room. It was simple but held some flair of Vegas.

A deck of cards on the table, with a full set of poker chips; Craig had found those on tour before he asked Carla to marry him. A couple of knick knacks with pictures, one of which was Carla's favorite.

She commented that he looked "so very cool" in that picture: it was of him and his unit from First Recon, out in the desert. There was Manny, arm around his shoulder, left hand with index and middle finger in a V–shape. He told Craig once, in the old days, the sign meant "V for Victory". And he was smiling too, a real smile.

Craig picked up the picture, ran his thumb over the old glass frame. Of the things Carla had found actually useful in the Dino–bite gift shop were frames, old with most of their paint gone, but the metal still held.

The other two were of Craig and Carla, one showed the two of them on the Strip, the other… was their wedding. The photo was taken on a balcony at The Tops. Carla wore a white dress, Craig his dress blues. That was truly the only day he had gone without his beret and glasses. Their hands were together, lips met, the sun cast their shadows long upon the balcony, and the desert was framed behind them.

Craig took the pictures, set them on the table. From the deck of cards he removed the Queen of Hearts and the King of Spades. He arrayed these two cards before the wedding photo and that of his unit mates, respectively. Then he took out a Joker, and set it on the center photo.

An old foot locker lay beneath the bed. It was locked; he wore the key around his neck. The container held some old army trinkets he'd collected. Craig Boone was not much of a sentimentalist, but enough to keep a few things. Among these was the old uniform, a standard NCR armor modified personally for use of a sniper.

It was lighter than the standard issue armor, with plenty of pockets for extra ammo, water and rations that he would keep close at hand when out on a mission.

The item he was searching for took some digging. A clip, one nine–millimeter round, and the service pistol he was issued upon enlistment. During his time in the army, he'd never had to use the weapon, and following his discharge he kept it at home. Carla hated both the pistol and rifle, saying it was dangerous for a child.

Craig sat at the table, staring at the pictures, the cards; the pistol lay on the table. He did not know the time as it passed, did not care.

He stroked the pistol grip. His mind was… blank really, no thoughts, concerns of anything plagued him. In all honest terms, it was not a human being who sat in that chair, but merely a husk whose purpose no longer existed. A human being is capable of rational thought, might even try to dissuade itself from this.

Rational thought, however, no longer mattered. Sighing, the empty thing that once was Craig Boone – NCR Sniper, former Husband and former Father–to–be – took the pistol in hand.

A knock came at the door, sharp, rapping five times. Craig looked at the door. He set down the pistol and stood. The door opened to show the face of Alex Hugh, with an accompanying, floating, robot at shoulder height by his side.

The man reached up and touched the brim of his hat. "Mornin'" Boone grunted.

"If you're not doing anything at the moment, I have a favor to ask." Boone grunted again. Alex took that as agreement. The man's eyes were blood shot, but he seemed alert.

"Your friend Vargas has some information I need, but he won't give it up unless I do him a favor. It sounds hairy what he wants me to do, so I thought to ask for some help. You seem to be a fair shot"

Any other person, he'd tell them to piss off. Hell, Craig thought about doing so anyway. But the jab about his marksman skills...

"Alright, I'll be ready in five" Boone said, shutting the door.

Donning his old armor felt… familiar, as though he was wrapping around himself a second skin, the motions of buckles and ties were a blur as his hands did their well versed exercises, whilst his mind wandered.

Checking his rifle, insuring the scope and sight were tuned just for his eyes (they were, he barely touched his sights once they were set), Boone slid the weapon onto his back, held by a hand-tooled leather sleeve with a drawstring to hold it closed. The rifle could slide easily from the sleeve on a moment's notice, but for long journeys it held strong.

He checked the position of his beret in the bathroom mirror, so the medallion was situated just to the left. Last, he slid on a pair of gloves, fingers cut at the first knuckle. They kept sweat off of the stock. Boone, out of habit, grabbed spare ammo from the footlocker of three full nine–millimeter magazines, holstered pistol, with a full clip, under his shoulder. Out the door, the sun shone.

Alex Hugh leaned against the wall next to his door, a hand covering the screen of his wrist gadget. Boone had never seen one before, but heard of them. Supposed to be given only to people from Vaults; 'wonder how he got one?'.

Hugh turned to look at him, quickly taking in the armor and guns. Nodding, the man made for the gate, Boone five feet behind. This was a tactic used snipers with units of… more mundane methods. Infantry were the frontline, soaking up the enemy thrusts. Snipers were exact, every bullet marked for a nameless target.

That was how it worked, the enemy goes for the bigger threat, and snipers kill the enemy before the Infantry could take a hit. But the trio of men and robot did not set off immediately, in fact they stopped for… breakfast. How strange.

_Author's Note_

_Another chapter; I seem to be on a role these past weeks._

_This was supposed to be longer, but I think this is a good enough place to stop, I don't want throw to much drama and… well cliffhangers I HATE when I am the audience, but fun when I know what will happen._

_I've stated in the past that I don't care for reviews, usually I don't, but let me know what you think, if there is anything that should be corrected, inform me. Also, I enjoy reactions to things I write, so if something is striking, tell me. Please, however, write with full sentences, no short text – I find it annoying. If you're going to say laughing out loud, put it in parenthesis. (Rant complete)_

_To my great friend Gufetto, for being an ear and magnificent partner, for all thing's Fallout related and beyond. Thank You._


	9. Wounded Warrior, 2

October 27, 2281

Road to RepConn Test Facility

0900 hrs

The road to RepConn was uneventful. Alex and Craig Boone walked, silently. Both seemed to agree, in some unspoken way, to let the events of the night be as they were.

Alex was curious about the man. Boone was a head shorter, but more muscular. The two men kept stride easily, matching step for step. It was as though they fell into a rhythm of motion, a synchronous march. ED–E floated by above the two, the sensor suite scanning, watching for any potential threats. Unfortunately the sensors did not include bodies of radiation.

The PIP–Boy crackled to life, an indicator light flashing with the triple triangle of radioactive material nearby. The trio backpedaled until they were beyond the range. Looking around, Boone spotted the body first. It was human form, but so emaciated it was more of a corpse. And it was glowing green as well.

"Glowing One" Boone said. Alex turned and the sniper gestured "a ghoul that emits radiation. In proximity to other ghouls it heals its allies. If you see one, kill it. They're tough, as well, so go for the legs and finish it with a headshot"

Turning back, Alex said "ghoul huh?" Boone looked at the other man, eyebrow raised.

"You've never seen one before?" he shrugged. The trio skirted the area of radiation and continued on their way. Their destination rested among a low range of mountains, glorified hills, really, but there existed only one road and the hills were sheer.

They entered the pass at nine in the morning. Breakfast was a superb idea, Boone now thought. He was tired from the night shift, but his sleeping patterns were off balance, so he never got a good nights' sleep anyway, and his dreams recently have been haunting him, again. They did so after Bitter Springs, and now it was Carla. And so he slept very little, and used… alternatives.

The entrance to the old RepConn place came into view: a chokepoint, in Boone's eye, with a good sniping position above. Turning his attention back to the road, the robot let out a noise. Alex raised his clenched fist, bent at the knees and took cover by a torched car, pulling a familiar weapon from his back.

Boone pulled his rifle and knelt as well. Examining the PIP–Boy, Alex held up three fingers of his right hand, wrapped around the grip and trigger guard of the rifle. Three fingers, down, and three again: six contacts.

Boone nodded, in acknowledgement of the number and in the direction of the rifle.

"I can spot for you, if you want to use that" he said. Alex nodded.

"How about we trade off spotter–shooter, you take three and I'll take three; I want to see what you've got" Alex replied.

Boone didn't know why, but the way the statement was said felt as though Hugh was… inciting him. It didn't make him angry, but it brought out an old competitive nature that he and Manny once had. This annoyed him now, and so did the man he was with.

Boone scowled, "fine, just don't miss". Simultaneously, the two men brought their rifles to bear. Down range were six ghouls, just idling.

"ED–E, get their attention, please" the machine let out an electronic chuckle, which formed text of laughter on the PIP–Boy screen. Rising high above the car, drifting to the middle of the road, the robot let out a sound of… some kind of music. It wasn't what was played over the radio, nothing that would be heard on the New Vegas station. Perhaps nowhere else, except from ED–E itself.

The music was loud, obnoxious, and exhilarating. As the ghouls turned towards the noise, Alex found himself bopping his head in time with the sounds of drums, electric guitar and thunderous voices.

The ghouls shrieked at the intruders and ran at them, hands held in the air, finger and long nails curved as claws. Alex fired in time with Boone, both picking off three each. But more came out from the pass, charging full on at the trio.

The music was an odd tempo with the pace of the fight, strangely in time with each shot as the song hit a crescendo, a reload followed the rapid guitar solos, or thunderous strikes upon drum heads and cymbals heralded the death of another ghoul. As the song swelled so did the volume of ghouls running at them.

ED–E began to fire, bursting ghouls into flames, but they were getting closer. Without thinking of the action, Alex changed for his Service Rifle, loading a clip, pulling the pin of the firing chamber to lock a new round. He stood and began to fire, targeting legs when he could not go for heads.

The ghouls fell before the onslaught of rounds. Boone sniped, ED–E blasted, and Alex fired to disable, to be killed by his companions. The rifle clicked, empty; ejecting the empty magazine, the metal case dropped at his feet. Hand swept a new magazine from his belt, ran it home with a single motion, and priming the next round.

The flood stopped. Alex was unsure of which shot the last ghoul, himself or Boone. It didn't matter much as over two dozen ghouls lay dead.

Alex looked to Boone, who was standing, watching the pass and the corpses.

Boone looked to Alex; the two exchanged a nod, a small gesture of respect and an okay to press on.

As the three rounded the crest of the pass to behold the RepConn facility, Boone stooped to examine the last ghoul shot. The head held two distinct entry wounds, less than one–quarter of an inch apart. The larger one was a three–zero–eight round, the smaller a five–five–six.

'Good shot' thought Boone, standing and joining the man and machine as they looked upon the courtyard of the RepConn facility. No hostiles could the sniper see, nor were any detected on Hugh's wrist gadget.

Alex surveyed the area before them; it was quiet now. Descending the hill of the pass, the trio found an odd sight: ghouls, garbed in brown robes, with guns. He picked one up, it was an archaic piece, electricity running throughout its frame.

"Plasma Rifle" Boone said, he was kneeling, inspecting one of the robed ghouls. Raising an eyelid, he found an iris. These weren't feral ghouls, and they weren't killed by ferals either. The physical damage – broken bones, limbs, and one poor wretch with his skull caved in – suggested a more violent death.

"These were beaten to death with melee weapons, not guns" Alex observed, Boone agreed.

Kneeling, Alex searched the pockets of the dead. He found various items, food, ammunition, medical supplies, all of which were basic items. Standing, he collected the weapons and ammo, placing each into two piles. Boone shot him a questioning look, and he shrugged.

"Might be able to sell these, I have no use for them" Boone nodded. It was a grim idea, taking from the dead. But survival was paramount, and that included scavenging supplies and weapons, selling and trading what was valuable to live another day. The pile was made and hidden behind a rock; the trio set off once again, into the center of the courtyard and up the stairs.

Two more ghouls assaulted the trio, both quickly removed as an obstacle by the two men. A short stretch of concrete lead to the front door of the main facility; Boone stood to one side beyond the doorframe. Alex knelt, rifle in hand.

Boone turned and pulled the door open, allowing Alex entrance to sweep the room for anything hostile. His companions followed.

Boone still held his rifle in hand "wouldn't it be wiser to switch out for your pistol?" Alex murmured. The sniper grumped, ignoring the question.

"Hey, you there" came a rasping voice from a speaker–box on the wall "make your way to the staircase in the room east of your location. Take the stair all the way up. Get moving, smooth–skins" the voice cut out, followed by shrieks of more feral ghouls within the building.

"Well that's just great" muttered Alex, replied by a grunt from Boone and a whir from ED–E.

* * *

><p>The fighting in close quarters was intense for both men and robot. Alex used his pistol, sometimes both, as ghouls charged the retreating humans and robot. It became worse the deeper into the facility they traveled.<p>

Ghouls poured out, from around corners and doorways; the PIP–Boy sensor swarmed with contacts. The trio finally reached the room indicated by their disembodied advisor, and the stairs gave the trio an advantage, funneling their enemies into a tight row in which Alex and Boone poured on gunfire, targeting the upper torso as the largest point on the body. Headshots were impossible.

At the top of the stairs, down a short corridor, there stood a locked door. Boone pounded on the metal, then tried calling up the person on the other side through another intercom. No answer.

The shriek of ghouls returned. Six were storming up the stairs, intent for blood. Alex… breathed. His right hand dipped to his gun belt, Lucky's polished grip slid under his fingers. He drew just as the ghouls came up the stairs. He fired, once, but did not release the trigger. Instead, he thumbed the hammer, drew back, the cylinder spun once.

The hammer cracked once more against the firing pin, sending a second bullet to end another ghoul.

Draw. Spin. _Crack_.

Draw. Spin. _Crack_.

Draw. Spin. _Crack_.

Draw. Spin. _Crack_.

Reality reasserted itself, and Alex stumbled into the wall. The withdrawal was not severe, comparatively. He breathed, took a swig of water and eviscerated a strip of dried meat. Boone was staring.

"How did you do that?" it was not awe, but a mere question, a tone that could be used when asking someone's opinion about the weather.

Alex raised the PIP–Boy, the tactical system status screen showing a recharge bar.

"It sounded closer to one shot than six" Boone stated.

Still catching his breath, Alex tilted his head; the gesture asking what did the sniper mean. The answer came when ED–E chirped.

The screen went blank, and then resolved into a recording of the past moments. Alex watched himself dip, draw and fire within a mere four second span of time.

Standing straighter, Alex turned when he heard the voice again

"if you're done fooling around, get in here. Jason wishes to speak with you" the door unlocked.

Boone opened the door, Alex following, and heard the man grumble "show you fooling around when I kick yer' ass". The sniper breathed out. It was his version of a laugh, just a puff of air from his nostrils.

"About time you got here, Jason should not be kept waiting" said the man in a laboratory coat.

He was balding, lanky, and shorter than Boone. The man took one look at the pair of men, and sneered in disgust.

"Creator…but you Are UGLY! Uhh, I gotta get outta here before your smooth skin makes me retch" the man stalked off, leaving the two behind, perplexed.

The man had skin as 'smooth' as their own. Shrugging, Alex proceeded to enter a laboratory room of ghouls. All wore the same brown robe, carried weapons, and were focused on their work.

Their greeter approached one ghoul who was… glowing. The ghoul wore a tattered and torn suit, the tears showing bright green flesh. The two spoke, looked at the trio, and the ghoul nodded, approaching

Alex was about to take a step back once he heard the ticking of the PIP–Boy. When the ticking did not come, he hesitated.

"Welcome, friends: you are within the sanctuary of the Creator's chosen, and shall be safe here" stated the ghoul. His voice oscillated, as though an echo from the depths of a well. Combined with the glowing portions of skin, the…person before them was rather eerie.

It was Boone who stepped forward.

"Thank You, but we're not here for hospitality. Why are you here?" the blunt questioning seemed not to faze the ghoul, in fact he smiled.

"We are here at the will of the Creator, the Lord of Light and Fire. It is His wish for His children to come here. This will be our pilgrimage, Our salvation from a harsh land where we are but demons who lurk in the night, to eat or infect its people with the fire that burned us. I do not wish this for my people, so by the grace of the Creator we have been blessed with the means to start our journey" the ghoul finished his sermon, lowering his raised eyes from the ceiling.

"May I ask you what is your intention here, Wanderers? Few of your kind have come here; most stay away, afraid of the fire in our blood and the belief we will eat them" the ghoul had a sad, forlorn cast in his eyes at the thought of such ideas.

Alex took up the conversation here "I was sent by the town of Novac; their trade relies on scrap metals, and this is the nearest source. Since your arrival, it has jeopardized their tenuous economic source"

The ghoul nodded at this explanation, and then turned to Boone "and what of you? Are you here for the same?"

The sniper jerked his head at his companion "he asked me to tag along"

The ghoul nodded once more "you are both welcome in our refuge for a time, so long as you respect our right to live and allow us to leave when we have completed preparations for The Great Journey"

Both men nodded, and the machine chattered, text appeared on the PIP–Boy which also stated agreement.

The ghoul spread his hands and arms wide, a gesture of welcome.

"Then you are guests here. I am Jason Bright, Prophet of the Creator and these are my flock" Bright had a cheerful grin on his face, which turned solemn to the point of remorse.

"Did you encounter… others on your journey here?" Alex and Boone nodded. Bright turned for a chair, sat, and laced glowing fingers together. Looking up, remorse was evident.

"Tell me what became of them" Bright stated, resolve and remorse in equal measure in his body language.

And so the men told what occurred outside of the facility: the ghouls as they charged, the robed bodies and their injuries.

"Did one have hazel eyes?" Bright asked, hope now entering his demeanor, standing from the chair with hands clasped.

Boone nodded "I checked one of the robed ones: hazel eyes, almost golden" Bright crumpled at the news. He sat down heavily in the chair, face in hands as he wept. The two humans looked at each other, one shrugged the other shook his head.

"My brother, my older brother; we have stayed together since the bombs fell. We always took care of each other. He was my best friend, he was always the strong one and carried us so far. Oh Daniel…" Bright broke down, tears fell between his fingers. The tears were mere water, they did not glow. One robed ghoul knelt and took one hand, another took the other.

All ghouls within the place stopped working, gathering around the glowing man in his need, for comfort and solace. The group formed a circle, hands upon each other's shoulders, in the center was Bright, head down, tears falling.

One rasping ghoul voice spoke from the crowd.

"Oh Creator, in our time of need, look upon us"

"Look Upon Us, Creator" intoned the group

"Here stands Your servant, Your voice"

"Through him, we hear You"

"His task is great, and he is mortal, its weight a burden upon his soul. May he feel our connection, our fellowship, our covenant with you, Creator, Lord of Fire"

"Our bond is strong, may it lift the spirit free, sorrow washed in Your Light, peace by Your touch"

"Let our brother feel Your love through our touch, Oh Creator"

The amassed group lowered their arms, some drifted back to their tasks, slower than when they began as though weighed down by an unseen force. Bright stood where he was, head hung but a smile on his face. Pulling a handkerchief, the man wiped tears from his face, smiling at one ghoul who still stood with him. This one had long hair, what remained of it, and black.

Bright ran a finger across the ghoul's cheek, they smiled and parted.

Bright looked back to the two men, gesturing at the departing ghoul.

"My wife, the jewel in my life as a man upon this earth" he looked at peace, sorrow still present but it was not crushing.

"Thank You for the news, Wanderers. If you are willing I have a proposal that will satisfy both our needs" Bright said, standing straight once more, hands behind his back.

Alex looked to Boone, who looked back. They both shrugged at each other.

"What is your proposal? We'll consider once we know the terms" Alex said, Boone remaining his solitary self. Bright smiled again nodding.

"Our plight is twofold: first, demons stalk the halls beneath us, violent and ruthless. We retrested from the subbasements when we knew an attack was upon us" Bright looked forlorn again.

"Many died attempting to hold the demons at bay while others fled. A voice came to us over the intercoms, shouting about killing us to the last, and yet promising safety if we remained above. At other times, it was hard to understand, little more than madness. If you can drive out the demons, we may continue our efforts on The Great Journey"

Alex nodded, turned for the door that leads to the stairs. Before the door, he turned, leaned against the wall. Removing his hat, he fanned his warm face. The room was heated a great deal, probably due to the equipment running. Setting the hat back, he looked to Boone.

"What do you think? Help or not? This problem sounds as though it can be solved any number of ways" Boone nodded.

The right thing would be to help, the easy thing would be to torch both groups. The wasteland cared little for ghouls, and the people living in it less so. Boone, however, did not think about the decision.

"I say we help" Alex nodded. He took the canteen from its place on his belt, took a gulp, and then offered the container to Boone, who accepted. A gulp, a nod of approval, and the sniper returned the container.

Straightening, the trio approached Jason Bright, who turned to them, hope in his eyes.

"We shall assist in your efforts" Alex said, Boone nodding in agreement, ED–E whirring, bobbing up and down, as though trying to mimic the human gesture of nodding.

Bright clasped his hands together, a look of relief and reverence upon his glowing face "Thank The Creator for you, Wanderers".

* * *

><p>'<em>Crack–Crack–Crack'<em> the Service Rifle fired a three round burst into the center of mass of an approaching blur. The creature, a Nightkin as described by Boone, roared. The invisibility field faded, revealing the beast, and its massive club. It swung, and the two men jumped aside. ED–E retreated further down the hall, firing laser bursts, only to be knocked off balance by another creature.

The dark hallways were too narrow for maneuvering effectively; they needed… something other than an open area and the narrow corridor. The trio retreated, Alex covering their movement with three round burst fired haphazardly down the darkened hallway and then sprinting to make ground between himself and the beasts. A door stood at the far end, down a short flight of stairs, closed.

"GET IT OPEN" Alex yelled, firing another burst. Boone took the lock wheel in hand, straining against the rusted mechanism. His face turned red, veins bulged on his arms… a roar from one of the Super Mutants gave him the needed adrenaline burst. The wheel turned, and then spun easily.

Boone saw the shooter and reacted on extinct. He crashed into Alex, both men falling to the floor as a shot from beyond the door roared. He felt a pain in his leg, but ignored it, survival first, wounds second.

Boone and Alex fled into the store room the door opened onto, and the Nightkin fell back. Neither of the men understood why, until a graveled voice spoke from above them/

"What the hell are you smoothskins doin' here?" Alex turned to find a ghoul with a rifle leveled at the pair. Boone turned as well, but his leg made itself apparent. He breathed in through clenched teeth.

Alex sat the sniper down atop of a box, rolling up the pants leg covered in blood. The wound was through–and–through, beyond that he could not tell. He gripped the leg with both hands and the PIP – Boy scanner activated. Blue–white light swept over the leg, and rendered an image. It showed the bullets trajectory, bones and vital areas. None were flashing red.

He looked up to Boone "do you want a pain med and bandage, or a stim–pak?"

The man breathed out, "stim".

Alex took one of the large needles from a pouch on his belt; it was a long tube with a short needle; it could be inserted slowly or jabbed. The sharpened tip was easily visible. Boone leaned back on the box, staring up at the ceiling, breathing evening, deeply, gripping the box.

"Hey Boone, were you at Bitter Springs?" Alex uttered. The question confused him.

"What–" Boone said, looking up. Alex jabbed the needle in, just above the wound. The sniper tensed as the bladed tip cut through his skin. As the medicine emptied the blood–coated flesh began to shift, slowly closing and healing the damaged tissue throughout the course the bullet had taken.

Boone shook as the needle came free. He let out a gasping sigh when the needle hole closed.

"I hate needles" Boone said. Alex laughed. He stuck a hand out and pulled the sniper to his feet, who nodded thanks.

"If you two are done, you can get the hell out. I don't care for company right about now." Stated the ghoul above them. Alex looked up, annoyed.

"We just got away from being mauled or worse by those brutes" the ghoul did not appear sympathetic.

"Ya, well talk a number, smoothskin, you're not the only ones with problems here" said the ghoul, a look upon his face.

"Do you have a friend down here, in trouble?" Alex asked. The ghoul was at first angry, and then thoughtful.

"Yeah, my girlfriend. She fled into the tunnels when the mutants came. I would have gone for her but… the bastards were too thick in number. I retreated here; this is a good killzone – height advantage and a narrow entrance, I could pick em' off one at'a time" he looked at the two humans standing below, thinking.

"Listen, you've survived this long, so you aren't pushovers… I'll fight with you to escape. But I need to find my friend first. However that goes, together we can survive and get back up stairs. Deal?" The ghoul looked at the humans, and the humans exchanged a look as well with a nod of affirmation.

"Name's Harland, by the way" the ghoul said, turning for the stairs.

Alex and Harland took positions by the door, Boone made an impromptu snipers' nest of crates, waiting for the door to open once again.

Alex turned the handle, the locks released, the door slid into its frame. Boone fired a single shot down the hallway. No sounds of pain echoed, but stomping feet could be heard. A Nightkin came from around the corner, with the skull of a cow in its hand.

"No more killing, Antler want to talk. Will let you go, if give us Stealth Boys. Know ghoul has them, know they're here. We wants them" Alex looked at Harland, who shrugged.

"We don't have what you search for" called Alex. The blue super mutant snarled, chattering nonsensical. Boone was becoming edgy with the Nightkin directly in his crosshairs. If it called for its brethren they would have a hell of a fight on their hands.

"CHECK! LOOK! FIND STEALTH BOYS! NOW!" the Nightkin roared. Alex looked to Boone, who nodded. ED–E took his position by the door.

Harland's nest was busy, jumbled. Boxes lay haphazard, bits of shell lay scattered about, and the torn off half of insect carcass, dry as a bone and missing its internal matter suggested just what the ghoul survived on. A computer sat atop a desk. Alex approached, tapped keys, but he had no idea what to do. The PIP–Boy gave him his answer. A cord sprung from a concealed port.

The plug matched with a connection in the computer, and the PIP–Boy began decryption. Thirty seconds, and Alex pulled up a shipping manifest. It mentioned what the mutants were looking for. He tapped a key and the document printed from a built-in machine. Tearing off the sheet, Alex returned to the door, handing over the paper to the Nightkin.

It seemed to have difficulty but finally concluded the Stealth Boys were not in the facility after all.

"We search elsewhere. You may go" said the creature, turning away. Harland called out.

"There was another ghoul with me. Where is she?" the Nightkin sneered at the rotten man who hurt many of his people, and killed two.

"She is dead"

Harland lowered his gun, and merely followed as Alex and Boone lead the way back to the floors above.

* * *

><p>Jason Bright heard the tale of Nightkin and their search, at the end of which he shook his glowing head.<p>

"My people are dead due to a search of which we had no interest in" he sighed, forlorn once more and then looked up. The two humans, and flying robot stood, before him. They had come in when the needs of his people were great and had proven worthy as great warriors. Jason stood.

"My friends; what you have done for my people is great, and we may now continue with our efforts on The Great Journey. If you will follow me, I shall explain what that is". He swept passed them, a procession forming of his people and their champions.

Through the door and down the stairs into the basements, and then below those, the group entered a system of old tunnels, either storm drains or sewer lines. Their purpose became evident when a large steel door opened to reveal a room full of electronic equipment. Through a window of plexiglass was the full reason for the ghouls presence.

"Damn" said Alex. Boone was silent, however just as impressed. The rockets were streamlined, graceful designs. And yet, for Boone, reminded him of a friend who fantasized about space nonstop. The rockets he drew were the exact same basic design. Someone had the inspiration to make a child's fantasy of a ship into an actual craft.

Bright turned from viewing the restored vessels towards the humans.

"We are nearly finished with their restoration, but we lack vital components. Chris Haverson knows of what we need"

Alex was about to ask who Chris Haverson was when said person addressed Bright.

"Jason, our work may now continue unimpeded. We no longer need these… people to help us any longer" said the man with the graveled voice.

Bright addressed his friend, a smile upon his glowing face, placing a hand upon the other man's shoulder.

"They are our champions, Chris, sent by the Creator himself for us to succeed. They can help with the final preparations. Please, tell them of what we need, and I know they shall retrieve it."

Chris attempted to keep a sneer from his face, his mouth working, twitching at the corners attempting to conceal his distaste. Bright patted his shoulder and left to move down onto the platform.

Chris looked at the two men, now openly sneering. Alex wondered what his problem was beyond the fact he talked as though he himself was a ghoul and yet could not realize his skin was 'smooth'. The man shrugged grudgingly, muttering something under his breath.

"Alright, we are missing two vital components: a fuel catalyst and Thrust Control units. The catalyst is a specialized form of radioactive isotope. We need several liters to ignite the propellant. The control modules… well you'll just have to find them yourselves" Chris turned his back on Alex and Boone.

The two men departed the facility, using a ladder that lead to the surface. Alex marked the location to return when the items were acquired.

"So, where do we find rocket fuel catalyst and parts to finish the machines?" Alex said.

"Novac has used RepConn as a scavenge site for years. Briscoe might have something, or Miss Gibson" Boone said. Alex nodded

The trio was walking the road out of the low mountains. When they reached the entrance and overhang, beholding the landscape before them with Novac in the distance, Alex breathed out a long sigh. Boone looked at the other man.

Alex removed his hat, wiping his face with a bandanna. Clearing his nose, stuffing the cloth into a back pocket, and replacing his hat, he stated a simple truism.

"Today is going to be a long day"

Boone nodded, ED–E chirped. The trio set off for the distant, hulking form of the dinosaur statue, so easy to spot at a distance.

* * *

><p>In Novac they heard worried talk, about Jeannie May Crawford. Boone ignored it, but noticed some people staring at Alex, and by extension himself.<p>

Alex noticed it as well as he took longer strides with his step, making for the gift shop. Up the stairs and through the door was a distracted Cliff Briscoe, speaking with two caravan merchants who both shook their heads. The merchants departed, leaving Novac's mercantilist leaning against the back wall.

He finally noticed Alex, and was surprised to see Boone, even more so the sniper wearing an old set of NCR armor.

"What can I do for you gentlemen? Right now the town is buzzing as a cazador nest, looking for Jeannie May. She went missing last night and the whole town is looking for 'er."

Alex looked to Boone, who returned the look. Even with sunglasses on he could see the snipers' eyes: they were blank but it was an easy mask to see behind. It held an anger at the mere mention of the woman.

Boone nodded, leaning back against the wall. Alex turned to Briscoe.

"Jeannie May Crawford is dead… by my hand" he said. At first the man did not appear to understand what had just been said, and then a range of emotions played across his face. The merchant stepped forward, hands behind the counter.

"And why would you shot an old lady, Mr. Hugh?" Alex drew his pistol, laying it down upon the counter.

"Mr. Briscoe, kindly place your pistol on the counter" the man complied, grudgingly pulling a nine millimeter and laying it beside the larger ten. With a motion, both Alex and Briscoe stepped away from the counter.

"Jeannie May Crawford is guilty of conspiring with members of Caesar's Legion to…" Alex broke off a moment, turning to Boone. The sniper nodded, and busied himself with inspecting an item on display.

"Jeannie May Crawford sold Carla Boone to the Legion. I found evidence against her, brought her to the cliff edge before the dinosaur statue and then killed her." The blunt nature of his statement brooked no argument from the merchant.

"The Legion? How...but why…" Briscoe stammered. He ran a hand across the balding pate of his head. He sat in a chair, mouth open, shock stopping all words. Alex retrieved his pistol and holstered it.

"Mr. Briscoe" Alex said, tone sharp demanding attention. The man started, turned in his seat to stare at him.

"Novac needs your help. RepConn is inhabited by ghouls who are attempting to restore rockets still housed within the facility. They need rocket fuel. Do you know we can find some, its radioactive".

Briscoe looked down, shook his head, putting aside the fact the man before him had killed Jeannie May and claimed that sweet old lady had sold another person into slavery. But as Hugh said, Novac needed to survive and RepConn was the single largest source of scrap that could be used as trade.

"Radioactive rocket fuel? I don' know where…" Briscoe drifted off, turning to look at the door behind the counter. Taking a key he unlocked the door and took something from within. The merchant set down a model rocket, a scale replica of the model restored by Bright and his people. The portholes of the vessel glowed blue.

Reaching for the model, the PIP–Boy ticked the radiation warning. Taking his hand away, Alex smiled.

"This may be what we need. Do you have more, Mr. Briscoe?" The merchant pointed with his thumb at the door "have a look".

Alex rounded the counter but stopped when he saw the closet, his mouth parted in surprise.

"Boone, how much is a liter?" the sniper took the rocket model in hand, feeling the weight.

"About three of these to a liter should be enough" Alex turned his head to look at Boone.

"So we need three rockets per, and Haverson said we needed…?" Alex trailed off, trying to remember the exact words.

"_Several liters_ is what he said" Boone stated, annoyed at the man who thought he was a ghoul. Alex rested his left elbow in his right palm, left hand over his eyes.

"So… a dozen liters, maybe?" Alex asked "and three rockets per liter comes to… thirty–six rockets" he sighed.

Straightening, Alex looked to Briscoe "Sir, would you arrange for delivery of thirty-six of these models to RepConn. Boone and I need to find something else, but when upon return we shall lead the delivery ourselves".

Briscoe nodded "yeah, I can talk to some Caravaneers in town to arrange that" Alex nodded and then departed from the gift shop. In the motel yard, he crossed to his room. Within he unpacked all items from his pack. He would need it for later.

* * *

><p>Alex and Boone trudged on the old highway, going north from Novac, towards a scrap yard of old world cars and machines, now only good for their parts. Barking and yapping could be heard from the fenced metal hulks, and soon dogs appeared to surround an woman sitting outside on a seat of some type.<p>

The two men approached and the dogs yapped and barked at them, some with lowered ears, others with bared teeth and two more ready to spring on them. The old lady watched impassively as the group of two men and floating robot approached. She whistled at the dogs, who quieted at the sound. They gathered around their mistress mostly to sit at her side, one to rest its head on her lap. She scratched behind the ears as the trio came within speaking distance.

"Well good afternoon to you gentlemen, what can I do ya for?" said the old woman. Boone had told Alex some about the woman Gibson. Old, no family, save for her dogs, a trader of scrap mostly from RepConn.

Apparently what was salvaged from the old facility was stripped down to parts and then given to Gibson to sell as she had a place to store it safely. She would sell, and give three–quarters of the profits to Cliff Briscoe, who would use it to buy goods and supplies for Novac.

Taking off his hat, Alex called out "ma'am; my friend and I wonder if you would talk business with us?" Boone stayed quiet, watching, listening.

Gibson rose to her feet, her shoulders slumped from age. She took a cane from beside her seat and walked over to the men.

"Well now, if'n ya wanna talk business, lets' take it on inside and see what I have in stock" With her cane, Gibson moved easily. Within the dusty, oil smell laden, old garage there stood boxes atop boxes, all slashed with various marks that escaped comprehension.

"So what'cha need young fellas'?" Gibson asked, moving to one corner of boxes.

"Thrust Control units for three RepConn Aerospace Industries Model X–75 Rockets" said Boone. Alex looked at the sniper, eyebrow raised, who shrugged.

"I've picked up a lot of little facts since being in Novac, I recognized the rockets model from several descriptions."

Gibson had stopped her search and now stood before another stack of boxes, rummaging around. Finally she pulled out three square boxes, each the length of six inches. Setting the units down on a workbench, she turned to the men again.

"I've got these three here modules, fine condition. Price is five hundred caps." Alex tried not to retch at the price. Coughing he cleared his throat.

"Pardon me, ma'am but that price is set rather high, especially concerning the fact that no one would want to buy these units. They were made specially customized to work for the rocket my friend mentioned, and therefore are useless in any other application. Also there is no market that exists for these parts. We, however, are the only ones who have an interest in them."

Gibson sighed, looking away, and finally nodding in agreement. The price was set at two–hundred and fifty. As the two men and robot were making for Novac again, Boone looked at Alex.

"You talk big, Hugh. The only people I've heard talk as you do are politicians" the last word came out as though Boone was spitting out venom.

"You take issue with politicians?" Alex asked. It was the first conversation the quiet sniper had started himself. Mostly their whole companionship had been very quiet, even more so than when it was just himself and ED–E. Boone shrugged.

"A lot of talking without actually doing a lot of work; if a politician does the job right, one half of the people will be happy while the other half are pissed off. But politicians now just sit on their asses, and their fattening wallets, while good people are in trouble without a home in California or suffer this wasteland."

Boone continued on for a time "the NCR is bleeding itself dry over this land, and all it is doing is waiting to die by starving itself to death trying to hold Vegas, the Dam, and keeping the Legion out. Another possibility is that something small could occur, to shift some balance, with the end result of the NCR having its throat cut open to bleed out on the ground at Caesar's feet"

Boone breathed slowly, letting out breath in a long exhale through his nostrils. The sniper remained quiet on the journey back to Novac.

* * *

><p>In Novac once more, Alex and Boone found one Brahmin caravan loaded with boxes, all filled with the number of required rockets. Briscoe stood talking to one leather armor clad merchant. Approaching, Cliff waved the two men over to join.<p>

"This here is Andria Vex, she makes a regular route to Novac. She's agreed to carry the rockets you wanted."

Boone and Alex shook hands with the merchant Vex, a blond with sunburned cheeks. She wore a wide–brim to keep her face protected. She was fit and looked the part of a person whose life was in the routes between towns and cities.

"My boys and I are ready if'n you two are. This job doesn't sound very profitable, but scrap is good for trade and if I want to keep using Novac as a source, then I'll help." Turning to Briscoe, she held a finger before his face.

"You just make sure that next time I come around, you have what we agreed upon" Briscoe placed his hand atop hers' lowering it.

"Oh, now, don't get into a fit now, you'll get your discount, I promise" he patted her hand. She pulled away with a huff, crossing her arms. Alex arched an eyebrow at the merchant, and turned that onto Briscoe.

"Young lass grew up here in town. Said she always wanted to see the world beyond these walls, just her and enough goods to carry onto the next place. Talked about saving up enough money for her own caravan. Now she works for the Crimson Caravan here in the Mojave" the man shook his head.

"Poor girl hated being under someone else's rule, chafed at it so much she ran away when she was a kid. Got into a spot o' trouble and came running back here. She's a sweat girl but head strong. I'm just sorry she hasn't gotten her dream yet" Briscoe shook his head.

Alex looked at the merchant Vex. She was talking with her mercenary guards about the trip, presumably also telling them about working with two new guys – Alex and Boone.

Shrugging, Alex turned back to Briscoe "She's younger than I am, so there is still opportunity and fortune to favor her. This wasteland has both, if you can survive".

Briscoe nodded, looking at Vex, eyes cast to a far off time "yeah, and that's what worries me: that she'll end up dead and unknown somewhere, in a ditch, body picked over by scavengers, human and otherwise".

Nodding, Alex and Boone joined Vex and her crew. The merchant turned to the two men, her mercenaries inspected both of them. Their eyes grew in size when they beheld the weapons.

"Alright, you two can stay up front, I'll be behind and my boys'll watch the goods. If anything happens, you guys are the first to start shooting" said Vex.

Boone huffed and a sarcastic smirk broke out on Alex's face.

"So we're just the bullet sponges for you, the distraction if anything happens" he said. Vex shrugged.

"You can try to find another if'n want, but there won't be another for some days now, and this route is a secondary, not a primary. You're lucky I'm here at all." She turned away, for the gate out of the fence, to the road for the RepConn facility.

Turning to Boone, who still held an expression of inpassivity, Alex smirked. "If this is what she calls good luck, I'd hate to see her idea of bad luck". Boone snorted.

Leading the caravan, nothing happened throughout the walk to the facility. In fact, it was a smooth and easy journey. They passed by the hidden cache of energy weapons without turning to collect – Alex thought it best as he did not want to share with the merchant who might think the find as her cut for the job.

Leading the group around rocky terrain, they returned to the manhole cover through which the service tunnels and rocket control room could be accessed. Opening the cover, Vex looked down into the shadows.

"How the hell are we supposed to get the stuff down their?" the merchant asked irritably.

Setting down his pack, Alex produced a corded rope of fifteen feet.

Boone descended first while Alex tied off the first box. The two mercenaries positioned the box and lowered it into the manhole cover.

Alex held the rope as it descended. When he felt a tug he stopped: the box had reached the bottom and Boone was untying it. Pulling the rope up once more the process was completed. Standing, he shook hands with the merchant and mercenaries. They parted ways as he descended the ladder, pack left topside for his return, as it was too bulky to carry through the manhole.

Chris Haverson was inspecting the contents of one of the rockets when Alex reached the bottom, and when the control units were presented, he seemed so ecstatic he'd forgotten his trademark cynicism of the two men.

Eagerly, as though he were a child receiving a great gift, Haverson announced to Bright, and all assembled within the launch area the completion was at hand. A great cheer arose.

Two ghouls retrieved the control units and fuel catalyst. They returned to the rockets and began installation and fueling. Bright appeared from the access hatch.

"You have done us a great service this day, Wanderers. It seems the creator has blessed us with three –" ED–E sputtered, text appeared on the PIP–Boy screen. Alex smirked.

"ED–E says 'don't forget me, I helped too. These two wouldn't know where a bullet came from if they didn't have me floating around" Alex thumped the robot's hull with his knuckles.

"Cocky little, spherical, bastard aren't you?" Alex said; ED–E whirred, spun around, and bobbed while Bright watched, half confused and amused.

"My apologies – Four friends, who have been instrumental in completing our efforts onto The Great Journey; when we reach our paradise, you shall be known as The Champions of The Great Journey. You shall be held as an example of our peoples working together…and Chris shall be known as our Saint, the one who delivered our salvation".

A sad pallor cast across Bright's face.

"He's not going with you? You used his knowledge and you are leaving him behind" Boone said. His mask of impassivity held but his voice held with it an edge of pique.

Sadness descended upon Bright's face, almost the expression he held about his brother.

"Please know, when Chris came to us we thought him mad, but his skills were soon apparent. It was to our shame that we used his skills and continued to let him believe he was a ghoul, and that he would go with us on our Journey. I cannot let him onto the platform, the radiation would kill him within minutes, so painfully. It is better this way, he will live."

Turning for the hatch once more, Alex and Boone turned for the window to watch the final preparations. Haverson activated an intercom to the platform and announced all systems checks were complete and showed green status across the board displays.

Bright addressed his people, and soon the truth of what would occur became apparent to Haverson. At first he was confused, and then angry leading to furious as his presumed friend and leader told him that he would be held as a saint, but would not accompany them. The followers and leader boarded the rockets, hatches closed.

Haverson stood, shocked, angry, disappointed, and hurt greatly.

"I can't believe what a fool I was, thinking I was a ghoul. The others stared sometimes, gave me a look as though I was some weirdo. Know I get it" he sniffed, pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket, blew his nose and wiped his eyes.

"There is still one task to complete" Haverson spoke, turning for the doorway. Alex and Boone followed, through the service tunnels, back into the basement and out into the first floor of the main facility.

Outside it was growing to mid afternoon. The sun was at the two o'clock position. The three men and robot made for another facility, opposite a large dome structure. Through doors and up stairs, they arrived in a room that overlooked the dome structure.

Haverson sat at a console, tapping keys and inspecting screens. Boone watched the outside area, ED – E floated impassively. Alex watched Haverson and the screens which scrolled with information.

When Haverson hesitated, Alex approached, leaned against the console and inspected the information. Though the text could be read only partially, the numbers he did recognize. If what was shown was true, the rockets would land off course by some miles.

Alex looked to Haverson, who stared at the screen and then at him. The wanting was apparent, it was so easy to do: just enter a course 'correction' and the rockets would destroy themselves upon impact with any surface that came in their way.

And Haverson had the opportunity to do so. But he hesitated, and Alex watched.

"Is it worth it? Are you angry at their deception, or sad at your own deception? You were not a ghoul in the first place, but when you showed your skills they let you work. They were your friends for a time, and you wanted to help. So is pettiness worth more than the lives of those people?" Alex said.

Haverson looked away, ashamed. A crackle over the intercom interrupted.

"Journey One to Control, do you copy." came Jason Bright's voice.

Tapping the intercom buttom, Haverson spoke "Reading you loud and clear Journey One".

"Chris, is there an issue? Must we abort the launch?" desperation could be heard in Bright's voice.

"No" Haverson said immediately, reflexively. Alex smiled.

"No, Jason, no issue. I was just making a course correction. The numbers were off and you would have landed a distance from the destination. I have fixed it"

A breath of relief could almost be heard.

"Wonderful news, Chris. What you have done is beyond all we could have prayed for. Were another possibility to exist, I would take you with us. But I do not want to risk your life, my friend. You have been the finest man I have known in a very long time. Thank You, for everything."

The intercom shut off, Haverson sniffed and wiped his eyes again. He made the course corrections and activated one final switch. He stood with the two men and watched the dome open, old music play, and the rockets to be revealed.

Exhaust eschewed from the thruster and the rockets sped into the air. One veered off course and looked for the briefest moment as is if it were going to crash. The vessel righted itself and flew away.

Silently, the three men and robot descended the stairs, back into the wasteland.

Alex retrieved his pack from the manhole cover and carried it over to the cache of weapons hidden away. When the group arrived, Haverson saw the weapons. His mouth dropped.

"What are you doing with all of those?"

Alex turned to look at the man. "To survive out in the Wasteland you need three things: skills, supplies and money. These weapons can supply the cash"

When Alex opened his bag, Boone whistled and Haverson, if he didn't close his mouth soon, would have his jaw fall off.

Alex shrugged as the pilfered items were revealed, and there were many items. Holding up three fingers he ticked off a list.

"Step One: find an item, or items, the more valuable the better. Step Two: find a way to acquire the desired item or items. Step Three: sell said item or items to a buyer, and if the buyer does not have enough money, take additional items on trade. The net result is profit in trade goods and money. And ALWAYS come out of a trade with more money than you came with."

Alex smirked, shouldering the pack and leading the group up the road and back to Novac.

* * *

><p>Novac once more; Alex walked up to his room, and set down his goods laden pack. More stuff littered his bed. Combined it would be a small fortune… if he could find enough merchants with enough money, of course.<p>

Divesting himself of the armor, Alex dressed in shirt and pants again. Hat on head, pistol on hip, Sunset Sarsaparilla in hand, he leaned against the wall outside his door, he watched the landscape.

It was four o'clock now. Boone had gone off to his own room when they returned. Alex had introduced Chris Haverson to Cliff Briscoe, who set the man up with a room and would look for something the man could do with his skills.

Alex had seen dark circles under Boone's eyes when he'd first knocked on the man's door. And somehow he knew that he needed to be there, knocking on that door and asking that question. He couldn't explain why or how. It just was.

Alex had talked to Manny and then Boone about letting the night shift sniper take a break that evening. It was a long day and the man hadn't much rest.

So now he just waited, watched, and drank the sweat–spicy anise-y goodness in his hand. Smiling, Alex took another swig of soda. Damn this stuff was good.

The sun descended in the East, and cast shadow across the land. The sky lit with shades of red, and blue slowly darkened to black. In the West, the first stars could be seen. They shone with intensity and life. The landscape before him fell away to mountains far from where he stood. It was peaceful, quiet, belying the violence that lay in the heart of man and earth.

Six o'clock came, and Alex entered his room briefly for the _Rati Confector_. With one clip each of armor piercing and hollow point rounds, with one full clip chambered already, he was more than prepared for the night should anything occur. He was not nervous about the duty: ED – E was accompanying him, and the height of the snipers nest would enhance his sensor suite.

Nothing hostile would approach the town this night.

Alex spotted Vargas come from the dinosaur body, and made for the stairs. He intercepted the sniper halfway in the courtyard.

Vargas shook his head, a grin on his face.

"Man, if I hadn't seen it I wouldn't believe it: religious ghouls attempting to restore rockets and go into space. Hell of a thing you pulled off, someone else might have just gone in, guns blazing and waste every one of them without a second thought. You're a rare person Alex Hugh, a peacemaker. I'm glad you stopped in our town" the two shook hands.

"Now, our agreement?" Alex prompted. He wouldn't say it but the whole day was a long drag on his patience. It felt good to help people, but Vargas withholding information just pissed him off. The sniper nodded.

"Alright, the guy who shot you, Checkered Suit: name's Benny, he's from Vegas. Don't know why he came all the way out here, or why he stole from you. The other two guys who were with him were from the Great Khans. They talked to me, a lot, about their plans and… other stuff" Vargas rubbed the back of his neck, an awkward tell of his when he was under pressure.

Alex took a step forward, eyes growing hard in their gaze as he stared the man down. Vargas sighed.

"I used to be a Khan. Did some stuff I'm not proud of and got into a lot of trouble. I joined the military to leave that life behind. Those Khans said I'd be welcome back if I wanted it. I don't, honestly I just want to live here quietly. When Boone came with that bitch, everything went downhill".

A hot burst of anger seized him. Alex reached forward and grabbed Vargas by his shirt front. He pulled the shorter man before his face, hard lines breaking out across his face as his mouth turned down in a snarl.

"That woman was loved by your supposed best friend. She was sold into slavery by none other than Jeannie May Crawford. And now she is dead. With an unborn child" the burst grew into an inferno, and Alex shoved Vargas back, falling onto his ass.

Approaching, Alex stuck a rigid finger in front of the man's face.

"Don't you dare disparage her memory"

Alex left Vargas on the ground, tramping the ground, up the stairs, not giving heed to Briscoe. Through the door at the top of the stairs, he slammed the door harder than he wanted. Breathing harshly, he sat in the chair. Setting his rifle aside, he cupped his face in both hands. Another breath, deep, in, out; he calmed.

Awhile later, when the sun had set and the night had taken the desert, a knock came at the door. Standing, Alex opened the door. Cliff stood on the threshold with a plate of food.

"Thought you might want some supper; when Boone takes the shift I brought him a meal. It can get rather boring up here".

Taking the plate, Alex nodded "Gratia, domine Briscoe". The merchant gave him a confused expression at the language. He laughed at his mistake.

"Sorry, habit I have. Thank You, Mr. Briscoe" the man still had that perplexed look on his face.

"What are you speakin' son?" he asked.

Alex shrugged "I have no memory of learning it, and it just comes out."

Briscoe nodded, with a shrug he turned back downstairs for his counter, another hour before closing time.

Alex ate his supper, taking a glance at the PIP–Boy every minute. ED – E played the radio program he seemed to favor, and kept the volume low. It was background noise to pass the time as the stars turned slowly in the sky.

* * *

><p>Craig sat in his room. Again.<p>

He ate a meal alone. Again

Sound was absent from the room. Again

The only difference was the scrap of paper that lay on the table – the bill of sale from the Legion.

The words did not change no matter how many times he looked at them. Carla had been sold, her and their child. They would have been slaves to the Bull and Caesar, whether a boy or a girl was born. One would have been used to kill, rape, destroy and birth more children for the Legion, the other would have been used as a beast of burden and birth.

The pictures still sat on the table, where he had left them in the morning. The cards still sat before each picture. The bill of sale rested in the center of the three. The pistol rested before him, a single bullet chambered.

He reached… for the bottle. Grabbing the vessel of alcohol around the neck, Craig took a long pull, whiskey burning his throat as it went down. He coughed, wiped his mouth.

His body ached, dulled by the booze. He hadn't go out the distance Hugh had taken him in a long time, almost two years. Old muscles were tight, almost to a cramp. The alcohol dulled the sensation as well.

It also made the deed easier: less of a thought and more of an action.

Level the weapon and pull the trigger. That's all it would take, and his body could react without instruction from his mind. The skills of death were so familiar to his body that no cognitive thought was required.

He took the pistol in hand, feeling the weight of the old piece: the cool touch of forged steel, the grip fashioned from recycled polymers found in an old factory, reactivated to produce the materials again.

Upon the grip was a tooled insignia: First Recon – the bears' skull and crossed rifles. But no man in the unit used a pistol, not when they could help it. Mostly it was used against vermin that got too close. A few guns had notched their rifles for human kills and pistol for vermin kills. Craig had neither. His guns were the same condition as they had been when first issued.

Many had died by the pistol, and more by the rifle. And today that number had risen once again, killing mindless corpses which had no idea what they were up against.

Craig yawned.

He was tired. Of more than just lack of sleep–the memories kept him up at night. The last sight of Carla followed those of an old man shot through the chest, of a mother running with her teenage son, shot through the head. The son had knelt, and then was shot himself.

Children of all ages; men and women - none were spared. It didn't matter, their order was to shot until the magazines were dry, and if necessary put a round into a survivor.

Craig could still hear the CO over the radio when he called in the news.

"I don't give a damn how old they are! They are the ENEMY soldier! Those 'children' will grow up and remember and kill more! KILL EVERY SINGLE KHAN YOU SEE!"

And he did.

Craig breathed and looked at the gun once more.

"I'll be with you soon, love" he said.

Raising the pistol, he placed the barrel before his Adam's Apple, between the bone of his lower jaw.

He felt the cold steel dig into his skin. That's how he wanted it, to feel the weapon before it fired. To, for a moment at least, feel what those he had killed felt when death came.

Slow, steady pressure, just another shot… just one more…

Craig pulled the trigger.

_Authors' Note_

_So…chapter nine. I've beaten my own record for chapters written, and well surpassed the number of words written on average per chapter, compared to my first._

_Thanks to my great friend Owl, whose continuous work has provided the Latin pieces for this project of mine._

_And to my Constant Readers, I leave you with a cliffhanger, but not a long wait._

_Chapter ten shall be commenced forthwith, and the story shall continue._

_A little treat for those of you reading. Next chapter: the 188 Trading Post and its inhabitants of quirky characters. _

_And for those of you who wonder, I will be completely destroying the limitations placed upon the game… such as that ridiculous companion limit, among other restrictions. _

_So Constant Readers I bid you… Gratia (thanks) for reading and Salve (be well)_

_Tutor Veritatis_


	10. To Be Lost and Found

October 28, 2281

Town of Novac

0550 hrs

Alex yawned. He could not understand this lifestyle: wake up, sit, watch the landscape for enemies approaching the town or watch for incoming traffic.

This task was tedious and the most boring job he had ever experienced. He could not comprehend why Boone and Vargas would volunteer for this sentry duty without feeling suffocated with the wait for anything to appear, just sitting, doing nothing. He would be glad to leave this town behind, for a while at least. But Alex suspected he was not done with Novac just yet.

The last ten minutes crept on with such a slow speed he felt as though they would never finish.

The first light of dawn was creeping over the wasteland. In pure darkness, with not even the moon to give light this night, the first rays of sunshine were a beacon to herald the new day.

Eventually, when the PIP–Boy clock had finally squeezed past 0559 hrs into 0600, a knock came at the door. It opened to reveal Vargas, who carried a tin cup of coffee in his hand. The liquid belched steam in the cool dawn air. "Mornin,"Vargas said.

Alex grunted, followed by another yawn. The sniper laughed softly. "I know that feelin', aftera long stakeout for a target or just waiting up here for shift to end. It's boring as hell but I consider a boring night to be a good night: no enemies coming to raid the town. I tell ya before me and Boone, this place was locked tighter than a Vault at night, afraid of bandits and raiders. Few came, but it has happened."

Nodding, too tired to speak, Alex stood. A massive yawn exploded from his throat, and Vargas laughed louder this time. The two men exchanged the chair, and Alex made for the stairs. Down the old wooden steps, through the gift shop and out the second door, he decided to check in on Boone before going to sleep for a few hours, followed by the walk to Boulder City.

He crossed the yard for Boone's door. It was locked and no answer came when he knocked. Moving to the window, he peered inside. Furniture was overturned, and a body lay on the floor, easily identified by the broad shoulders.

Fear settled in his gut, action overtook reason. Stepping back to the door, away from it, Alex raised his right foot. Clad in the tough, calf high, boots of his armor, the ankle was stiff, the leg strong.

He thrust forward, the leg a battering ram striking the door above the lock plate; a thunderous crack, the shattering of wood as loud as a gunshot. Had the foot not worked, a few bullets might have. Shouldering the door aside, he made for Boone.

Rolling the man over, he saw the man was passed out from drink. Boone had consumed a lot of alcohol by the size of the empty bottle clutched in his hand. Except for severe dehydration headache from so much alcohol, Boone was okay. Grabbing the man under the arms and around the chest, Alex hauled him to the bed, where the limp body flopped onto the bare mattress.

Looking around, the room was a mess. What furniture held within the room was demolished; a full cabinet was rested on its front, with several dresses revealed between the split planks. The only table in the room rested upside down, one leg broken. Poker chips and playing cards lay everywhere. The only thing untouched in the room was a shelf which held three framed pictures.

Examining these Alex saw they were photographs: center left showed Boone and several men in uniform, out in the desert, somewhere. In this picture, curiously, Boone held more insignias upon his uniform than did the men around him. He was centered in the photograph as well, his buddies arrayed in a cocky, laid back style of men whose only thought, at the moment, was where the next opportunity to get clean would be.

A second picture showed Boone, in a clean uniform, with a beautiful woman on his arm. They were smiling. Lights shone behind them. Alex surmised the woman was the future Carla Boone.

The third was the most striking. Of Carla and Boone, on a balcony with the sun illuminating the now married couple. Boone looked very handsome in his formal attire. And Carla…well, damn, she was a knockout if Alex had ever seen one (He probably had in the past. Damn missing memories). A healthy figure with generous curves, hair tied back to expose a graceful neck. She was radiant in the sunlight.

Turning away, Alex stepped on one thing he had not noticed. Crouching, he retrieved the pistol Boone had carried the other day. Ejecting the magazine he found it filled with bullets; pulling the slide ejected another.

Resetting the machine, Alex dry–fired the pistol; smooth trigger motion, the hammer fell, and the mechanism clicked. It sounded alright. Sitting cross legged, he took the pistol apart piece by piece, arranging each in an order that was another aspect of his second nature knowledge.

The gun lay, in parts now, before him; all were in fine condition except one. Picking up the firing pin, he examined the piece. A crack split the metal in two, the fragment lost somewhere.

From his observations and some guesswork, Alex could imagine the scene in the darkness of night, where this man sat in his depression, alone to face his demons.

* * *

><p>Town of Novac<p>

Home of Craig Boone, Carla Boone (deceased)

0000 hrs

Slow, steady pressure, just another shot… just one more…

Craig pulled the trigger.

'Click' The pistol let off not a roar… but a snap of metal on metal.

His mind, so focused on the simple exercise of firing a weapon, did not register the gun had not gone off. When the light from his bedroom lantern did not fade, Craig pulled the pistol from beneath his jaw. He was breathing, hard.

His blood heated, boiled. Mouth turned down in a grimace and then a snarl. Hands shook; the pistol grip dug into the palm. With a roar, he flung the useless weapon at the wall. It struck and spun off somewhere.

He kicked over the chair, upturned the table, grabbed the chair again and smashed into against the wall.

He gripped the dresser, still full of Carla's dresses and his plain shirts and pants, sending the whole piece to crash and splinter against the floor.

He ripped the sheets from the bed and tore the fabric in half and then tore again into quarters.

Finally, he punched the wall. The fist sunk into the old material. Skin broke; old nails cut into the flesh. Pulling back, the cuts went deeper. Staring at the hand, the palm, knuckles, fingers and wrist were torn, blood ran in rivulets.

He watched the beads of red collect and then drip onto the floor. Staggering over to the broken table Craig searched the floor, looking for the pictures. They lay beyond the destruction, frames and glass undamaged. Picking them up and setting on their shelf, the last five swallows of whiskey sent the man into oblivion.

Standing once more, Alex looked at the man on the bed. Boone slept, snoring into the mattress. Only one thought crossed his mind.

'This place will kill him' with that thought in mind Alex made for the door, sleep forgotten now.

Up the stairs and into his room, he pulled every single item taken from the RepConn facility, from the most menial piece of scrap to the largest weapon. Some of the Nightkin had dropped their weapons on the way out of the facility, depressed at their poor fortune of finding their Stealth Boys.

From the pack, Alex pulled what Boone had called an Incinerator–basically a fireball launcher. He would keep it for himself, the idea of holding that kind of power was… interesting. But the weapon would benefit more from being a profit than as a weapon.

Every gun was arranged in order of size and ammunition type, every small item was paired with duplicates. Satisfied, Alex left the room, locking it. Making for a bungalow across the yard, he knocked, hard.

A haggard Cliff Briscoe answered, wearing a shirt and underpants. The older man stared at Alex, sleep keeping him from recognizing him. Slapping a hand over his eyes, he dragged it down his face. "Hmm, yes, what do you want?" the merchant asked, eyes hazed from the half sleep state

Standing tall, spine straight, shoulders back, "Mr. Briscoe, I have an offer for your town that it cannot refuse. Help me and this deal will ensure Novac is very wealthy."

The want of sleep clouded Briscoe's mind "W–what deal? I don't got… no deal with you."

A firm clap of his hands brought Briscoe back to attention.

"Mr. Briscoe, get your pants on and please follow me." The commanding tone got Briscoe moving. Back in his room, he pulled on a pair of very old jeans. Following the young man out and up the stairs, all Cliff could think of was the warm bed he had left.

A door opened, and Cliff stood at the threshold. The young Alex held out his arm to stop the man from entering. Blinking, he stared. And then his eyes shot wide open at the array of weapons, ammo, parts, and so much scrap metal that dozens of old machines in town could be repaired, or sell them for a handsome profit to any trader that came through.

Mouth agape, Alex clapped Briscoe on the shoulder. Turning, their eyes met. "Mr. Briscoe, I will give these to you, free of charge, in exchange for selling them at the best available price and giving me half of the profits with a finders' fee up front of five hundred caps" Cliff stared back at the small mountain of goods before him. A grin spread across his face. Gripping in a fierce handshake, the two men agreed.

* * *

><p>Cliff organized half a dozen caravan merchants to have a look at the salvage, and Alex was paid his fee, with which he purchased goods from the traders Briscoe organized.<p>

Before the morning meeting of traders, Hugh had doubled his money through trade of yet more salvage from RepConn. Briscoe had a look at the size of the man's money bag – it was full. The remaining profits were stuffed into a satchel he carried.

Cliff shook his head. The man was a natural of the merchant's art and had a silver tongue that had traders who kept their wallets tight, shaking hands with him over large sums of caps, some going higher than two hundred and more.

But he did not keep the profits. Nope, he returned them into the town economy, buying water, dried fruits and meat, ammunition for the arsenal he carried, along with oil from rendered fats of gecko, Brahmin and Bighorner, each in a separate container.

Nine o'clock came around, and the merchants gathered. Cliff stood before the items to negotiate on behalf of the deal with Hugh. The group descended upon the goods as bloatflies to a corpse, calling out prices that escalated in number until, for a clutch of sensor modules, one merchant paid out five hundred caps.

Cliff wondered if that was what the young man had wanted: create a competitive atmosphere to drive up prices on items that would otherwise sell for a few dozen caps. One plasma rifle sold for one thousand, its ammunition sold for fifty apiece. What others might call junk were a treasure to Novac's coffers and Hugh himself. During the whole thing, the young man sat, silent, a small smile on his one point Hugh left the merchants and entered Boone's room–oddly, the door was busted open–and he stayed inside for some time.

* * *

><p>Boone still lay on the bare mattress, on his back now. Alex was crushing some medication into a water bottle cap, mixing the powder with water. Once the solution was of… agreeable viscosity between water and powder, he mixed the whole bottle.<p>

Opening Boone's mouth, Alex dribbled small amounts of water down his throat, and the instinctual reflex to swallow did the rest. The bottle was emptied after a number of minutes.

From the door Alex watched Briscoe negotiate, haggle and sell for the highest price the goods he'd taken from RepConn. Talking with those merchants about money, and deal, and trade goods left him feeling sour.

The instinctual need to hold tight to their purses, trying to make money where little could be spared, some merchants had the gall to offer him goods at prices that were ridiculous for the condition of the pieces.

One had tried to sell him a .45 pistol that Alex revealed to be so rusted it would break or explode if fired. The merchant was properly ashamed and sold the other items at lowered prices AFTER Alex had threatened to inform Cliff Briscoe, Mayor of Novac and the primary contact for merchants looking to buy RepConn salvage, of the insulting attempt to sell poor quality items.

A groan was uttered, coming from the bed. Turning, Alex saw Boone stirring between wakefulness and sleep. Rolling onto his back, their eyes met briefly before the sniper covered them again with a groan.

A muttered "shit" followed, and Alex smirked. "That happy to see me, huh?"

Turning onto his side again, Boone ignored the quip. "Why are you in my room," the sniper asked.

Leaning against the busted doorframe Alex related his story of the morning. Though he could not see the man's face, his voice carried with it the image of a scowl.

"I don't want your help, so get the hell out."

Not budging, Alex replied, "You were much more keen on the idea yesterday."

Still turned away, Boone shot back, "that's because you pissed me off, and you stopped my first try. That dig about the First was low, so I went to show you exactly what we were about."Alex chuckled, but without mirth; the sound caused Boone to tense, become angry. It was a better reaction than depression but not by much. It would work for now. "You never answered my question. Were you at Bitter Springs?"

The question was stated in a neutral tone, but Boone tensed considerably. With a slight movement the sniper grabbed something on the ground. He spun around, bringing the useless nine millimeter to bear on the infuriating man only to find a ten millimeter staring at him from across the room.

Alex held the pistol easily, finger on the trigger guard. Boone looked at the pistol and then his own. He threw the piece at the wall, where it clattered onto the floor. The ten was holstered. Sinking back onto the mattress, the Sniper stared down the Courier. "What do you want?"

Alex would have considered the question, but in this situation an answer was needed, not a long explanation. Approaching, he knelt by the barren bed. "I want you to go with me. I have a score to settle with someone in New Vegas, but I want answers first. So I'm going to Boulder City, where ever that is"

Boone sat up, "Why Boulder?"

Nodding outside, Alex replied "Vargas told me some of the guys who were following the one I'm interested in were on their way to Boulder City. If there is a trace, I'll find it."

Boone shook his head. "Boulder's a ruin; nothing but corpses in that place." At the perplexed look on the courier's face, the sniper continued "back in '78, Rangers lead the might of the Legion into Boulder. There the NCR held until a trap was sprung: the whole city was used as an explosive weapon. It worked, but every trooper and Ranger inside was annihilated. It's just a giant grave today"

Alex nodded "well, Vargas told me that's where my guys were off to, so there I will go by myself" He stared the sniper down "or, you could go with me…"

Boone cocked his head to the side, wondering if the guy before him was serious or being facetious. The grim expression and hard eyes suggested the former. He scoffed, "why the hell should I go anywhere with you? I went along yesterday because it was in the interest of the town. Don't get me wrong, the people here lied to me and that pisses me off, but I helped anyway. Beyond that I got no reason to go anywhere, 'specially not with some wasteland wanderer shit who just so happens to have some noble cause stuck up his ass."

Alex remained calm. He thought this was merely bitterness directed outward as Boone had been unable to take his own life, and now was directed onto the surrounding world.

"I hunt slavers and their ilk," Alex said. Boone stared up at him, and nodded. "Yep; I killed a camp of over twenty after Nipton was burned to the ground and then rescued the hostages and brought them to the Mojave Outpost"

Boone stood, squared his shoulders, and sized up Alex anew."Are you Alex Hugh, from Primm?" With a nod of affirmation, Boone let out a puff of air as a laugh. "Christ, I really did find myself a bona fide 'hero' didn't I?" the sniper said derisively.

Alex merely shrugged. "If you think about my offer without being an ass, there are benefits: you get outta this town, you wander the wasteland actually doing something, and if we're lucky run into a lot of slavers for you to vent on. Also, survival is more possible with a larger group, more firepower use against anyone stupid enough to think they could take on such a force… which plenty have tried. All have failed."

The cocky, confidant, and self-assured attitude Hugh practically wore as a coat just pissed off Boone even more. But he was also right. Not a damn thing could be done about the wasteland in Novac, so… why the hell not?

Shrugging, Boone grunted, followed with a nod. Retrieving his travel pack and other essentials, he readied for… whatever it was wasteland wandering heroes did.

Alex left the man to his preparation, returning to Cliff. Most of the items were gone now. A metal box stood open with so many different colored caps inside he could not guess the profits. Half of that would be his. Despite his distaste for the mercantilist trade, profit certainly was… appealing.

* * *

><p>The armor, again, and the rifle; Boone would never admit it Hugh was right, b spoken admission anyway. This town would be his death more assuredly than leaving, than in fighting Legionaries. He didn't care though. Yesterday, moving, fighting, felt good, old practice and techniques that had gone soft reignited with purpose. The feeling of living once again, he hungered for it, for life.<p>

He'd felt that way when he'd dated Carla, and more so when they married and tried for children. She made him feel alive. And now has come into his life this wasteland wanderer who offers… something other than sitting around, merely existing. What Boone wanted was revenge, the kind where nothing was gained for himself except sweet release in the end

Boone wanted to find anyone under the flag of the Bull, as many as possible before they killed him in return. Go down fighting, that was the idea: find the biggest camp of Legionaries and just shoot until his magazine was dry and all he had was the machete on his belt, a memento from '78, a more fitting reward than the medal and promotion the brass had given him.

Armor cinched, belt pouches full, bandolier full, boots tight, rifle in sling, beret and sunglasses, and travel pack filled. Everything in neat organization… some things never change, such as old habits. Grabbing the pack straps, shouldering it, cinching it snug, Boone made for the door. Out of habit, he closed it, remembering only when the lock did not set that it was destroyed.

Everything he wore was his life now, again. The life with Carla was stowed away in the footlocker under the bed. Boone approached Hugh, who stood by Cliff Briscoe and several merchants, pawing over the loot from RepConn. The pile was smaller now, just some scrap, weapons and ammo left over. One merchant was considering the Incinerator.

Briscoe was haggling, the merchant was arguing. Finally Hugh intervened, poured over the merchants' own wares and took a few items on trade. The merchant finally handed over a fist sized money pouch and proceeded to tie the incendiary weapon onto the pack Brahmin. The last pieces were bought or traded.

Hugh and Briscoe closed the box containing the money, bid farewell to the merchants and made for the gift shop. Boone followed. Inside, the two men were dividing the income.

Hugh turned, nodded, and finished the transactions.

"Mr. Briscoe, I will leave a portion of my share with you, please keep it somewhere safe. I will return to claim it at some future time. Do not tell me where, just hide it." Hugh said, sliding a large share of caps at the merchant.

Briscoe nodded, retrieved a smaller box and stowed the caps, "I'll find a good place for these, I promise". Courier and merchant shook hands to conclude the deal.

Hugh turned for the door and Boone followed. "Before we head out, I need to talk to someone", Boone said.

At the bottom of the stairs, Hugh turned to look at Boone with a questioning expression on his face. But the courier said nothing, merely followed the sniper to another bungalow in the yard. Boone knocked, waited. The door was answered by a black man in shirt and pants but wearing combat boots and a hat worn by NCR Rangers. The man smiled.

"Boone, what do I owe the visit?" the man asked.

Boone held out his hand and shook "I'm leavin' Andy; you remember what we talked about? Well now's the time".

The smile on the former Ranger, Andy, dropped. He opened the door wider, revealing a left leg encased within a metallic splint, supported by a cane.

"So yer' leavin', for where?" Andy asked.

Boone shrugged "don' know. You still keep that old rifle maintained?"

Andy scoffed, turning stiffly into the bungalow. At a large footlocker, the former Ranger tapped a key combination. The lid opened. Within was an old sniper rifle. Whereas the rifle Boone carried was a hunting rifle repurposed, this piece was built for the hunting of men: long barrel, lightweight frame, and powerful scope.

Boone nodded, turning away.

"Hold up'" Andy called. Boone turned back and the former Ranger beckoned the two men closer. The door to the bungalow closed; Andy spoke in low tones "I was on the radio earlier with Charlie: something happened down there. I wouldn't worry about it much but whatever it was sounded as though there was some rough–housin'. Check it out before you skip town permanently – you know how important that post is, Craig."

Craig nodded, turning for the gate once more. Hugh fell into an easy stride beside him. Beyond the gate and onto the train tracks that ran through town, Boone and Hugh went south. Outpost Charlie, the primary NCR presence within a twenty mile radius, was about four miles from town following the tracks. Walking at a fast clip they could arrive in about an hour and a half. The two men remained silent for a time.

"You make plenty on all of that loot you got?" Boone asked.

Hugh nodded a smirk on his face. "An even five thousand on everything, plus items on trade, such as these" Hugh pulled from his pocket a pair of sunglasses, but the lenses were much darker than the pair Boone wore.

As Hugh was affixing the eyewear, ED–E let out a sound similar to the song it played yesterday, but this was merely a single guitar, climbing in sound from a low bass to a high screech. The sound hit a crescendo once the glasses were affixed. Boone shook his head, wondering what this man was about and the situation that would follow in their wake.

Whatever that was, all enemies would fall before his scope.

* * *

><p>The sun sat high above the mountains, shadows almost nonexistent within the cut between the tall rock faces. Between this great cleft in the rock, that lead forward and south were the steel tracks of rail, stretching forward until unseen, the metal blistering hot beneath the burning orb of heat. The heat was concentrated and directed inward within the valley, raising the temperature greatly.<p>

The glasses Alex wore helped as the sunlight hammered at his eyes.

Outpost Charlie emerged from the vaporous tendrils of heat rising from the ground.

Upon the car rooftops, Boone could spot no sentry. A bad sign already. Bringing the rifle to bear and eye set to scope, he scanned first the Outpost, then the surrounding area. Alex checked his scanner: no life signs and the range had been set to maximum.

Boone whistled a sharp sound that cut across the stretch between them and the Outpost; it echoed back, until carried away on the small breeze that rustled the surrounding scrub brush. He sighed.

"Well, there is probably an ambush inside, or it is completely abandoned" Boone said; the two men exchanged a look. ED–E beeped in agreement.

Alex checked his ten millimeter and then Lucky, followed by the two rifles, the shotgun on his lower back, ending with the grenade rifle. All loaded.

They approached Outpost Charlie as quietly as possible, moving with bent knees and weapons shouldered.

At the corner to the entrance of the outpost, Alex scanned the courtyard for traps. He saw none and gestured; ED–E moved further in also scanning, sending a video feed to the PIP–Boy. All was clear within.

Entering the courtyard, there lay no evidence of any sort to suggest some foul play. Aside from the fact that the whole base had been occupied no more than a day ago, this outpost was kust another abandoned wasteland structure of man. The barracks was another situation.

Opening the door, the smell of decaying flesh long dead and cooking within an enclosed environment assaulted the nose. The stench brought tears to the eyes of both men and neither moved to go inside immediately.

Taking the bandana from his pocket, Alex tied it securely around his nose. He entered the barracks carefully, seeing two bodies on the floor. Their posture looked posed, and the chest was elevated. Crouching, grabbing one soldier by the boot, he pulled the body.

Hidden was a landmine, the glowing red light fierce in the dim room. Stepping forward, the landmine sounded its proximity alarm. Reaching, Alex pressed the flashing red button which turned green. He placed the explosive upon the nearby desk. Another body, in a doorway, also hid a landmine. But here lay only two rangers, where were the others?

A door stood closed to his right. The front room was the office; two rooms on the side and directly behind the wall were bathrooms; the closed door, he surmised, must be the bunkroom.

And Alex was correct, three additional bodies lay in their bunks, throats slit. A trap, made of a tripwire, jury rigged to a grenade and some kind of canister, lay across the threshold. Loosening the taut wire was easy and freed the simple device.

Outside with Boone once more, after taking a gulp of clean, dry desert air, Alex presented the explosives, in addition to some small plastic devices with tape reels inside. "Holotapes" Boone said and then looked at the PIP–Boy. "I've heard these machines can play 'em"

Examining the machine revealed a slit large enough for one tape; a menu showed a 'play' option.

The first tape was merely a journal entry of one ranger, ending with an utterance of surprise from the man speaking. The second tape was a warning.

"We are coming. The Legion cannot be stopped. We have taken one of the women alive" The tape ended, and Boone sighed.

"Alright, I guess we go back, give Andy the" nodding, Alex fell into step with the sniper.

* * *

><p>"The Legion… here, so far west." Ranger Andy sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He turned back to his visitors.<p>

Boone sat in a chair while Alex stood, waiting merely to leave."Well, I'll inform M.O. of this, let Jackson take care of it. Thanks for all the trouble fellas'"

Boone stood and shook hands with the former ranger, now Novac's new night sentry. Honestly, the sniper was glad to be rid of the job. Maybe have a regular sleep pattern, dreams permitting. He doubted that very highly.

"Before you go, maybe I can help you out. I don't have money, but I've got skills" Andy looked between the two men.

Boone grunted, with a muttered "I'll pass", and then turning for the bungalow door. Alex accepted.

For ten minutes, Andy showed Alex a takedown maneuver, but without a proper partner to practice with, the full motion and result could not be taught. Boone was 'volunteered', with grumbling.

Standing at a space of five feet, the two men faced each other. Alex took one step back, turned, dropped, and swung his leg around to connect with his opponent. Boone braced for the impact, but he still fell.

With a smirk, Alex held out his hand to the downed sniper. Boone took the hand, was pulled up, and then both shook. Gathering their packs, both men departed from Novac.

Back on the highway 95, north once more. In the far distance, a broken city could be seen, rising from the heat as though it were a watery vision. Checking the PIP–Boy map, Boulder City lay twenty miles north. They would never reach the city before nightfall. Sighing, Alex put one foot before the other.

Another day and his answer could be long gone by the time he reached the ruin that lay ahead. Taking off his hat, Alex ran fingers through his lengthening hair, already tickling the back of his neck, brushing against skin.

* * *

><p>The sun lay half covered behind the mountains, red tinged in the waning light of day. Shadows cast long upon the ground, from the remnants of the old world, the standings of the rare plants that thrive in this burning land and two men with one floating machine.<p>

Alex walked ahead, Boone some feet behind him. ED–E floated between the two men. Silence had ruled the entire walk since Novac. The predators of the desert had not attempted an attack upon the three travelers. No persons had come upon them all day. He felt as though, within a finite moment that the world was vacant, with just themselves as the sole inhabitants.

Despite the company, Alex felt… alone. Looking back, he had enjoyed the near constant questions of Amber Li and answering them as well. It had been a welcome distraction from the monotony of travel.

The sun finally set as the companions traveled forward, all that was heard within their small atmosphere of the world was the treading of boots, the whir of the machines' engines… and music, distant, faint, and a single instrument.

Alex stopped, as did Boone and ED–E. They listened – ahead, some yards off, at a fire by an old billboard, sat a familiar person, strumming on a familiar instrument.

Approaching, Alex whistled. The music stopped, the player looked up.

Alex waved. The man stood, setting the guitar down, hand on his hip near the grip of the massive revolver he wore. Closing the distance, the man recognized the tall fellow in leather armor and that old hat.

The Drifter broke out in a smile as wide as the moustache upon his face. Moving from his pistol, he stuck out a welcoming hand. Alex took the gesture and shook hard. "Welcome to my camp, friend. Hell of a place to meet you of all people" said the man

Nodding, Boone was introduced along with ED–E. The sniper and Drifter shook hands, and the machine bobbed up and down, spun in the air above their heads.

Gesturing to the Drifter, Alex said to Boone and ED–E "this man was in the thick of a fight with some outlaws in Goodsprings. Didn't even get hightail outta town but offered his gun in service to help fight".

ED–E let off a long whir, an imitation of a whistle. Boone nodded. The Drifter gestured to sit and the three men rested around the fire with the machine hovering above the billboard acting as sentry.

Taking up the guitar, the Drifter played a tune with a good tempo and then sung with the tempo.

"I killed a man in Dallas / And another in Cheyenne / But when I killed the man in Tombstone / I overplayed my hand…"

The fingers strummed the strings, the voice uttered the words, and the wind carried both across the plains into the growing night.

The sun set, stars bloomed, and a sickle moon sat in the sky. The fire burned hot to make a circle of warmth. Boone sat upon a pair of old tires, Alex in the dirt, the Drifter and his guitar atop an old cinderblock.

The night lengthened, and all that was light was surrounded by darkness. Standing, Alex went to his pack for the tied down bedroll. Laying down the heavy canvas cover and slipping the blankets inside, he removed the armor, pants and hat, folding the clothes and setting them atop the pack.

Slipping beneath the covers, he stared into the starlit sky and listened to the Drifter play his songs. Alex drifted off into sleep.

* * *

><p>'<em>Crash'<em> a flash of sparks. _'Clash'_ the fatigue began to set in. _'Screech' _therasp of metal upon metal as two blades crossed. They parted.

He went to one knee, sweat flowing off in rivulets. Looking up, his opponent appeared unfazed. The head shook, disappointed.

The other spoke, hands moving. The face could not be seen, but the smirk could. The smirk angered him, the words enraged. A feral roar, a blind charge, the crash of steel once again, now rapid, frantic.

A single twist, one twitch of the wrist, and the blade flew. He watched the steel but not the fist as it sunk into his gut. Doubled over, blood boiled.

And then came the knee. Pain.

A thrust into his chest, and he was on the ground once more, now on all fours.

He tried to stand, but the other straddled his back, gripped his neck and top of his skull. The hands squeezed, dug into his flesh, drawing blood.

"You will do as I say, or you shall die. Our contract will be void"

Quiet now, he nodded. The other gave him a cloth to wrap his wounded neck. Blade in hand once more, they faced across the distance between.

Moving; anticipating; _'crash'_ the other smiled, nodded, moved, twisted, the blade came down again and was met easily.

* * *

><p>Hugh went to bed, but Craig had no inclination or desire just yet to sleep, and so he kept awake, watching the fire, listening to the Drifters' guitar and singing. He was good.<p>

So he sat, watched and listened, until sheer physical need forced him to lay out his own bedroll and sleep. Craig dreamed that night, of Carla, but… it was different

He sat in a chair, upon a white porch.

A breeze rustled the leaves upon a tree.

He stood, looked down at himself. He wore a white shirt and shorts, muscled calves protruding from the shortened pants legs. Beyond a fence of driftwood was a beach.

Compelled, he placed one foot before the other, walked, passed the fence, up a rise, between two tall dunes with a cleft cut between. Beyond was the ocean.

Still in the cleft, he heard the crash of waves, the cry of gulls, and the smell of salt. He breathed, taking all of it in.

Eyes open, down by the shore, a woman in a white dress – cut at the knees, strapless, loose enough to ruffle in the breeze.

Approaching, he stood behind her, hand raised to descend upon her shoulder. But he could not.

Craig awoke to the smells of food cooking on a fire, but he did not immediately rise.

* * *

><p>Alex awoke to the smells of meat upon an open flame. Sitting up, the Drifter had three skewers of meat angled toward the fire; fatty grease dripped into tins hung by wire.<p>

Removing himself from the bedroll, Alex stretched; vertebrae popped, tension released from his neck. He walked about one dozen feet away from camp and began his routine.

Muscles extended, tendons stretched. Thirty minutes and he was sweating as the sun beat down upon the land. Routine finished he attended to cleaning and dressing. Another ten minutes and Alex was re–armored.

Kneeling at the fire side, the Drifter handed over one skewer and a cured animal stomach filled with water and pulverized cactus pears. The sweet concoction paired well with the flavor of the meat. Eventually, Boone rose to eat and dress as well.

The three men ate their meal, drank, ED–E played music and the sun crept slowly higher into the sky. When the PIP–Boy said 0700, Alex and Boone departed the Drifter's camp for the ruin of Boulder City, just another eight miles.

* * *

><p>The tread of boots upon old asphalt remained the only sound of the trio. Even ED–E remained silent during the journey. The sun rose in the sky, heat vapors waved in the air, and the ruin of the city before them drew closer.<p>

On the outskirts, Boulder City lived up to its namesake: it was a near worthless pile of rubble, given a meager life by the sacrifice of men and a large slab of granite bearing the names of the fallen.

A lone soldier stood at the memorial, hand upon a name, face long cast and eyes distant; the trio passed this private griever, Boone bowing his head in homage. Ahead, Alex could see a ramshackle fence, perhaps a settlement further inside the city itself.

Rounding the corner, however, the trio was stopped by sentries, half a dozen soldiers bearing rifles at the two men and robot. An officer stood behind the sentries, back turned, relaying something over a radio unit. The man's head drooped, and then an affirmation seemed to have been reached. The officer stepped away from the radio.

"Identify yourselves" the man demanded, looking squarely at Boone and Alex and glancing at the floating robot.

"Craig Boone" the sniper responded.

"Alex Hugh" stated the courier.

The officer, a lieutenant, at the utterance of their names looked shocked. Turning to the radio again, the officer dialed a new channel.

He spoke with whoever was on the other end, speaking animatedly and uselessly in front of the radio. The lieutenant nodded, replied a goodbye, and returned."I just spoke with Ranger Jackson at M.O., he says you're trustworthy. There is a situation here; some great Khans have taken a squad hostage. The gang is passed this fence and within the rubble."

Alex listened, merely absorbing the situation. Boone, however, tensed, first at the mention of Khans and growing as the lieutenant relayed the circumstances.

Nodding, Alex divested himself of pack and gun harness, the only remaining weapon was his ten. Boone followed suit, but at the gate into the fence, the courier stopped the sniper.

"From what I have gathered, the Great Khans relationship with the Republic is… frictional" Alex said the last word with a shrug and tilt of his head.

Boone snorted "that's a word; when I was discharged the general policy of the NCR was shoot-on-sight. Someone hasn't given that order here… not yet".

Nodding, Alex gestured at the hunting rifle "give me cover if things go seventy-seven, I want to run away without crossfire".

Agreeing, Boone took his weapon. Passed the gate, the rubble of the city became treacherous. In several places the two men had to squat in order to scale the debris. ED–E merely floated over the ruins.

At one difficult pile the snarky little ball stated the ease of its own passage and wondered why humans used such outdated methods of transportation as legs, noting the time it took for their group to arrive in Boulder City as an example. Alex responded by throwing a small rock at the little smartass, which caused a text of outrage and laughter to appear on the PIP–Boy.

When once the city streets would have been avenues of cars and pedestrians, now the rubble choked the old byways, rendering movement slow and often dangerous. Twice, a piece of debris – rusted rebar the first time, a slab of reinforced concrete the second – gave out beneath his foot and Alex fell. Both times Boone caught him. Two city blocks required thirty minutes to traverse.

A squad of troopers met them within the ruins. The squad leader, a woman sergeant, informed Alex and Boone of the present situation "The Khans are held up in that building down the street, the one mostly intact. A few are outside, but I've seen more patrolling".

Alex examined the area: rubble strewn as the rest of the city but this area was traversable enough. The building indicated was a two–story: shop downstairs, office or home upstairs. A blown out structure sat to the left, and through the window frames were people dressed in various leather outfits.

"I'll take up position on this side of the street" Boone said, walking off to an unknown location.

Alex moved forward, arms up. ED–E stayed close, hovering above and to the side of him. Across the last block he could see the gang members visibly grew more tense at his approach. One person raised their weapon but another swatted the barrel down, gave terse orders to the group, and walked out to meet him, mouth agape.

This gang member, a woman, looked terrified. As she saw his face the color drained from her own. Her legs shook and, almost imperceptibly, shook her head. Her mouth moved without sound. Standing before the woman, a girl really, sound flowed from her lips finally

"You're dead" she said.

A suspicion, laced with a previously unknown anger, rushed in his veins. Removing the new sunglasses, Alex fixed his eyes upon this girl before him. She seemed rooted to the spot and could not move for fear.

"Were you at the cemetery?" Alex asked. She nodded, throat working, breath coming in wheezy gasps, eyes growing wet.

"Did you dig the grave?" He asked. The girl shook her head, her front teeth gnawed the lower lip, body tense.

"Did you pull the trigger?" The final question broke the girl. Tears ran down her face, a grimace of sorrow and fear. She crossed her arms over her exposed chest, covering her breasts and unconsciously wrapping herself in a vain attempt at protection from the specter before her. Alex leaned forward, to whisper into the girl's ear. "Then you are not my enemy"

Sidestepping the girl, Alex approached the two–story building. The thought of merely walking in did not sound wise, and so his knuckles wrapped on the old door. A few seconds and the door opened. Beyond the threshold stood another gang member, leather outfit with an additional green bandanna wrapped around his forehead. This man's reaction was much the a match to the girl.

"You're dead"

* * *

><p>McMurphy is dead. Now it's just him. Jessup ran a hand over his face, smelling dead man's shit all around him.<p>

The dead man lay on a mattress, a syringe in his arm. McMurphy had not stopped talking about how wrong it was to let that bastard Benny shoot that Courier, didn't stop talking about what he said in his last moments. Both men had nightmares about it: the guy would speak, the bullet cracked, and darkness would engulf the world.

And then they awoke, sweating, terrified of what they could not say. It just seemed a shadow followed them all the way here, from Goodsprings all the way to this pit of what used to be a city.

The fear finally got to McMurphy, and the man overdosed during the night, but it was not an easy way out. Nope, he vomited, choked on the bile and died. The only way Jessup found out was the smell after the man had shit himself in death.

Now it seemed Jessup was next. First Chance, next McMurphy and now him as the NCR waited outside of this old store. Only the hostages kept himself and his brothers and sisters alive for now. That small group some idiot had sent in…just a bunch of kids, not even old enough for the Khans initiation and a damn sight greener as well. A girl had nearly cried when he said they were not to be harmed.

All this was supposed to go so easily: get to Boulder, meet with a group laying low, and then escort that asshole Chairmen Benny back to Vegas. But the slippery bastard had snuck out in the night, and then the NCR came down around their ears.

All for a damn, shiny poker chip.

A knock came at the door. Jessup looked from where he sat. Standing up he crossed the space to the door, glancing back at the other man in the room, who held rifle at ready for whoever came in.

The door opened wide… to reveal a ghost.

His heart stopped for one beat and then rapidly sped up. Breathing became laborious as he stared into the eyes of a man who was buried in a cemetery almost fifty miles away as the crow flies.

"You're dead" was all he could manage, the situation just could not be real: a man shot through the skull, standing on the doorstep, healthy as a pack Brahmin. It just could not be.

"I got better" was all the man said. He rushed forward, barreling into Jessup to crash onto the floor. "Drop the rifle or you will be dead before you shoot" said the Courier seemingly risen from death.

Jessup now noticed the old ten in his hand. The Courier did not look at the other man, keeping eyes on him alone, but the pistol held true and never once did he look to verify the location of his aimed target. The sound of a rifle being placed on a surface acknowledged the threat.

The Courier stared at Jessup, eyes holding an ambivalence that could be either death or survival. "Where… is… Benny?" asked the specter which had haunted his and McMurphy's dreams.

Jessup jumped to respond "New Vegas, on the Strip. Th-the Tops I think, he's dressed as a Chairmen, so…" He remained on the floor, watching the Courier with pistol raised and eyes on him. The man nodded, holstering his weapon.

He moved for the door as if to leave but did not open it. Turning back, the Courier addressed the two Khans.

"There is a unit of NCR soldiers beyond the gate, if you release the hostages as a show of good faith I will speak to their commanding officer on your behalf, so all of you may leave this place alive"

Carefully, Jessup got to his feet, staring at the man. Unless his ears deceived him, this Courier was offering safety and escape to one who shared responsibility in the events of the theft and botched murder.

Unable to speak, Jessup nodded. The Courier opened the door and exited, the two Khans following. Around to the next building, a dozen Khans sat or stood around the captured troopers.

"Cut these kids free" ordered Jessup. The majority of Khans looked to him and then at the Courier who stood next to him. No one moved.

"Do it, damn it and we can all go home" Jessup said. One Khan stood and untied the NCR troopers, each standing gingerly.

The Courier stepped forward, stood before the troopers, stiff back and stern expression.

"Soldiers! Single file back to the gate. Move out!"

Terror, relief and without direction of what to do, the young soldiers responded to the voice of authority, gaining comfort and confidence in following direction from someone who held an aire of leadership. The troops filed out, following the Courier. Jessup and the Khans waited for one minute and then followed the backs of the retreating NCR soldiers.

* * *

><p>Passed the gate the recovered NCR soldiers seemed to catch a second breath, double–timing as they followed a sergeant directed to take the unit to the barracks. Alex and Boone stood with Lieutenant Monroe.<p>

"A damn fine thing you've done here, I'm glad you resolved this without bloodshed" but the relief did not show in his eyes.

Alex turned to the officer "and yet there is something about this situation left unresolved"

Monroe nodded, about to speak, when Boone cut in.

"He's been ordered to kill the Khans, down to the last. Higher officers, who have standing orders from Redding, decided if the troopers got out or not, the Khans were not to be negotiated with under any circumstances".

Alex looked to the lieutenant, now an edge held within his voice and gaze "is that correct, Lieutenant?"

The man, beneath the uniform, fidgeted on his feet "I have my orders".

Alex scoffed "lieutenant, if you carry out those orders you will perpetuate a cycle of aggression. Your superiors are not here and are able to make such decisions when they don't look into scared faces. You have the chance to make a moral judgment: kill and continue violence or walk away from it. Besides it was I who made this agreement and I will fight to honor it".

Alex stepped closer to the Lieutenant, staring the man down "I am skilled and can shoot enough of your men to make this the optimal solution, or I will fight my way out with the Khans on following and give them cover as they run. The choice is yours lieutenant".

Stepping away, Alex crossed his arms. Boone was tense, standing away from him. Monroe glowered and then his shoulders sank.

"Alright, they are free to go; I'll report the Khans slipped out some other way if anyone asks". Alex nodded and watched the Lieutenant depart.

The Khans came out from behind the fence, most began to move east. The one with the bandanna stopped by Alex. "Here" said the Khan, handing Alex a lighter, gold plated. "This belonged to that slick snake Benny". Saying no more the man walked off, only to stop when he saw Boone.

His Khans' face hardened, teeth bared. He turned to Alex "You realize you travel with a murderer" and then spat on Boone's boot.

The sniper did not react. When the Khans left, he merely wiped the toe on a piece of debris.

The three companions departed the fenced off area of Boulder City, heading towards the outskirts of still–standing buildings. Originally intending to move on, Alex spotted perhaps the one thing that could brighten the day. Nudging Boone, indicating with a nod at the bar, and the sniper nodded. Crossing the street, the trio entered the small establishment.

Tables sat with chairs resting on top, the bar was dim from the grime filtering light through the windows and the oil lamp sputtered on the bar top. A radio played the tunes which Alex had come to associate with the wasteland: slow, slightly mournful of long lost loves, and twangy. The barkeep seemed to emphasize the mood of this place, the bar and city both: a lonely man, bored, with little to occupy himself except for the rag that cleaned a held glass with slow motions.

The barkeep set down his glass as the two men approached, not taking time to eye the strange third companion.

"What'll ya' have, friends? I got beer, whiskey, and water".

"Beer" said Boone, taking a seat at the bar.

Alex followed suit, "same" he said.

Reaching underneath the bar the man brought out two frosty bottles. Boone was about to pay for his when the man waved away his caps.

"No sir, NCR drinks free here; you on the other hand…" the barkeep eyed Alex.

"He's my spotter, and my duck" Boone said. The barkeep snorted a laugh with a small smile, and set to business of the establishment in a back room

"You're 'duck' huh?" Alex asked.

Boone took a swig of beer before responding "means a decoy, something to draw out enemy positions so a sniper can pick off hostiles."

"Uh huh" Alex said, taking a pull from his own bottle. The two sat quietly for a time; ED–E descended atop a table to wait. Slow tunes played on the radio. A ceiling fan rotated slowly. For about ten minutes did the silence continue before Boone spoke.

"That was a hell of a thing you did, talking out those Khans and then Monroe" Boone snorted his usual laughter without twitch of lips. Another couple of minutes passed before he spoke again.

"Didn't think much of you when we met, just another waster and then you just helped, for no reason apparently." Boone turned to look at Alex "what's your endgame, Alex Hugh?"

Alex stared at Boone; Boone stared at Alex, neither wanting to break eye contact as though they held a contest of scrutiny, to see which would turn first. A shrug broke the moment and each stared back at their bottles.

"I don't know, actually; I'm just chasing after the last thing I remember" in his periphery vision he saw Boone glance at him. Nodding, Alex continued "before the twentieth of this month I don't remember a thing of my life; it's gone, erased… by a bullet". Removing the hat revealed the scar. Boone looked hard at the mark.

"I don't know what I was before… a family, a home to return to. I am a wanderer in all but name itself, and I don't even know if that is real either."

Boone remained silent, drank the decreasing beer, and sat. Alex drank as well, just beginning to feel the numbing, fluid sensation that comes with alcohol as it interacts with brain chemistry.

"After… then, Carla was the best thing in my life. I lived again because of her" Boone murmured into the quiet bar.

Alex nodded and raised his bottle "to that which is lost" the Sniper and Courier clacked glasses and downed the last of their beers.

* * *

><p>'On the road again… someone should write a song about that, if anyone hasn't already" Alex snorted. But the trio was indeed back on the road, westward bound on the ninety–five, approaching a small outpost where this highway and the ninety–three intersected. A trading post as Boone mentioned.<p>

The late afternoon sun slanted westward, falling steadily behind the great mountains that way. The sky was painted a deep orange, hues of red and pink giving way to increasing purple in the east. ED–E, seemingly happy with the beer–to–beer the two men had shared in Boulder was playing the last episodes of "The Shadow" that was on Radio New Vegas.

These last episodes had kept a measure of boredom from the group that had been present but not noticed until the little robot had begun playing the radio. Their strides were longer, when once they were languorous, the pace more sure and a feeling of wellbeing was present. Boulder was more than just getting part of an answer to further questions.

Though Alex would say he and Boone weren't friends, not yet, they were companionable, if silent. A tension, present ever since finding the sniper passed out drunk and his room destroyed, was relieved to an extent.

The sun touched the horizon of mountain peaks as the sight of a rise came into view. Boone pointed.

"That's the 188 Trading Post up there, which acts as a crossroads for all going or coming from Vegas and the Strip to outlying areas of the Mojave and vice versa".

Nodding, Alex fixed his hat. Though it did not actually need fixing, he'd discovered himself creating a habit of touching, tugging and pulling on the piece on several occasions. It was not a nervous tick, nor a gesture of contemplation, but… an unexplainable habit of unconscious motivation.

He put these thoughts aside as the trio approached the trading outpost. Up the rise of the overpass extending across the highway ninety–three they came to a small kitchen. The owners were a father and daughter partnership, he running the kitchen as clockwork and she handling sales and trades.

Alex and Boone ordered a couple of steaks and drinks, moving to a table to have their meal. The place was quiet with very little traffic at present: a couple of Brahmin caravans, some travelers but nothing… odd.

Save for a girl, a woman wearing… a robe of some material with a deep hood to cover her face. She sat at a table one row over and two tables back.

Boone, who sat facing in her direction, made a verbal notice. "Eyes on us: woman, robes, deep hood, been watching us since we arrived"

Alex, who sat away from the woman, nodded and cut another piece of meat "two ideas come to mind: one, she's the same who watched me at the M.O., or she's a traveler as we are and finds us curious. I'm for the latter, as the one at the M.O. wore leather armor, was slightly taller and muscular".

Boone nodded. The sunglasses remained on his face and so he watched the woman. Alex gestured and ED–E settled on the table with camera watching the woman.

Steaks finished, Alex wiped his hands on his bandanna. Nodding, he said "should we make introductions or continue a game of watch me – watch you?".

Boone snorted again "I hate cloak–and–dagger, much prefer the direct approach".

They rose from the table, Alex moving awkwardly as his long legs came out from the low bench. ED–E floated once more with a slight utterance of annoyance, claiming it was quite comfortable where it was.

Packs in hand they strolled to the table where the woman waited, watching. Setting down their heavy bags opposite of the table, Alex and Boone turned to the woman.

With a tip of his hat, Alex addressed her with his typical "ma'am". The woman pushed her hood back to reveal her face. It was young at first look but her body language and the way she looked at them suggested experience in the wasteland and a maturity of years hidden by the smooth olive skin.

"Hi, nice evening isn't it. I love this time of day, when the sun casts the world in such colors, it's a lot better than where I'm from" she turned in her seat to look at the colors of the setting sun, breathing in the warm air just beginning to tinge with the cool of night.

"The desert holds many faces, many names, many places / an untamed land / man tries in vain to hold with a tenuous grasp / amidst the sand and rock / between places of concrete / there lives only death for the unwary / and yet prosperity for those who know her / who feel the land in their blood". Alex said, gaze on the distant fire as the sun finally set beyond the mountains.

He blinked, pulled out from his reverie, and turned back to the woman. She was looking at him, smiling, an open expression of…interest. Alex smiled back, and gestured at the bench "may we sit? Our journey has been long and many roads have been taken".

She smiled wider at him "you may, oh weaver of words; rest your weary limbs, be welcome and in good company".

His smile turned into a grin. As Alex and Boone moved to sit, the sniper whispered in his ear "where did that come from?" to which the only response was a shrug.

Sitting, watching the change of colors in the sky, the woman was the first to move. "I know you came over here because you saw me watching, can't pull a fast one on me buster" she said, with a grin of the cat that swallowed the canary.

Alex laughed a grin on his face "so it seems I cannot win with words, so I must discard the trappings of civilized man and speak as a blunt savage". The woman was smiling even larger now, almost showing teeth.

"Why were you watching us ma'am?" Alex said, smiling but serious.

The woman looked back at the sky, now turning to the color of dark ink.

"I find myself curious as to why a man in leather armor is equipped with a RobCo PIP–Boy Model three–thousand D–Series, and is traveling with an Enclave Eyebot combat model B–2 first generation. One rare item I could believe on luck of the draw, but not two." She turned fully toward him, eyes alight with interest.

"Who are you, oh traveler?" she asked, face breaking into a full, teeth revealing smile now.

He extended his hand out towards the woman "Alex Hugh, Courier" she shook the proffered hand but did not offer her own name

"Craig Boone" the sniper said with a relaxed two fingered salute as a way of hello.

ED–E whirred and text appeared on the PIP–Boy screen, which Alex showed to the woman, who laughed. It was a sweet sound, full and alive, making her eyes close and her lips to part. Whoever this woman was she was not a wastelander.

"So why the curiosity, there are plenty of travelers come through this place?" Alex asked, and she nodded.

"Yes, many do come through here but none notice me. And those that do notice are men who see the first sight of a woman their brains stop thinking and their heads start working. And I have a general policy of no more than five hundred square feet of breathing space between myself and the entire male gender of humanity".

She eyed to the men now "so you keep this bubble of personal space and we'll have no issues"

Alex nodded, further perplexed as to this young woman. "So we are merely the first to notice your eyes upon us, and we obviously have a very interesting collection. And so that drew your attention?"

The woman nodded, "that and you don't seem to have lecherous ideas, and you greeted me as an equal – a courtesy of which many other men have not. So, yes, you are interesting in different ways than the others who have passed through in recent days.

The woman turned to Boone then "and you are so quiet, merely watching, observing. Why is that?"

Boone shrugged "I'm a sniper, being quiet is what we do."

The woman nodded, eyes on Boone a little longer before returning to Alex. "A reason I was interested in you was because… you seemed capable, know how to survive in the desert and I am interested in teaming up with such a person or group."

Alex raised an eyebrow, the enigma of this woman continuing. "We are capable that is the truth, but why would you want to join us miss…?" The question was both about her interest and her identity, but she waved an index finger slowly back and forth.

"Uh, uh, uh, you don't get to know my name just yet Mister Hugh, Courier man. But to answer your real question: I want to see more of… well the world really, but we are restricted to mostly the wasteland, aren't we?"

Alex shrugged "that restriction doesn't concern me as my business is in Vegas" This revelation seemed please the woman, as she clapped her hands together and a big smile lit her face.

"I have wanted to go to Vegas… for so long I can't tell you" she positively exuded excitement over the prospect of a visit. Alex watched her, and another query rose in his mind.

"For argument's sake, we take you along, what can you offer to the whole? You're smart, obviously, but something practical is more needed than intelligence" The woman's grin did not recede.

"I can make almost anything with the right parts, and I can take just about anything apart without breaking it. I'm really good with computers–my best time was eight seconds through a triple–layered passcode with a program to randomize the pattern every ten seconds. And then, there is this…"

She stood, turned to face the two men, held out her arm, palm up, and then swiftly turned the limb palm down, switching on a mechanism. A clatter of metal, gears and hissing escaped from the sleeve of the robe. From the cuff, her hand was encased in metal, forming over the fist into a steel shell. Alex and Boone just stared, both men surprised.

But the woman was not finished with her demonstration.

Stepping over to a bridge pillar still standing, she drew back her fist and slammed the steel into the head, cracking the old concrete pillar and sending the head flying off a distance of fifty feet before gravity pulled it back. The fractured piece shattered upon the old asphalt road below. A flexion of muscle and the fist retracted.

Sitting once again, she shrugged her shoulder "Pneumatic Power–Arm, utilizing micro systems to amplify physical strength to a maximum output over fifty times the human limit

Alex whistled "okay I'm impressed. And you, Boone?" the sniper nodded his agreement. ED–E gave his ascent, which earned a pat from the woman.

"Just one last thing… this is important" the woman looked somewhat nervous now. "What do you know of the Brotherhood of Steel?" She did not conceal her tension, it was plain upon her face this question was entirely serious for personal reasons.

Alex shrugged, stating he had no knowledge of a group under that name.

Boone, however, did "an organization of technologically advanced isolationists. They gather old world weapons, any useful and still functional technology, and knowledge to be archived, hoarding all of it for their own use. They aren't known for sharing, but the NCR had trading agreements and treaties during its inception years. The cooperation was beneficial to the growth of the Republic. But relations have degenerated into hostilities, at the moment there is no outright war but certainly not peace".

Alex watched the woman as Boone spoke, saw her eyes glaze over, shoulders slump.

"Here in the Mojave the last confirmed presence of the Brotherhood was at Helios One power plant, but that was before I was here. Rumors persist around the wasteland of sightings but most are unsubstantiated."

The woman looked up at the two men, now with a determination that revealed more than she consciously knew.

"And what is your opinion of the Brotherhood?" she asked.

Alex shrugged "I don't know enough about them to form an opinion; thus far they are just another group within the Mojave who exist for their own reasons. It is not my place to judge another".

The woman brightened at his words.

Boone, with his ever present scowl, said "The Brotherhood were allies of the NCR, and now they are at odds with it due to differences of opinion, politics change. The Brotherhood should help with security, use their technologies and help protect, though".

With a happy smirk on her face, the woman stood. "Well if you haven't guessed, I'm Brotherhood as well".

Boone grunted and Alex said "which is why you have that arm and the training to use it".

Standing, Alex and Boone gathered their packs. ED–E rose from the table. The woman retrieved her own pack from under the table and slung it on her shoulders.

"There's a place to bed down on the other side of the overpass. Oh, before we go…" she stuck out her hand "Veronica Santengelo."

The humans shook hands, ED–E uttered a greeting. The group walked to the opposite end of the overpass to a collection of tents and campfires. Choosing an empty tent, fire pit cold, they set down bags for the night. Alex started a fire with the lighter Jessup had given him and careful tending brought a warm blaze to their small corner of the camp area.

They each decided, silently, to forgo the tent, choosing instead to lay their bedrolls out beneath the stars. ED–E, in his series of beeps, asked to play some music for the evening, and Alex agreed. The tunes were a background noise to the cracking and snapping of wood within the fire.

* * *

><p>On the bedroll, lying on his stomach, Alex stared at a book. It was the same one Mitchell had been reading when he awoke. During his stay with the Nash's the old novel had fallen from a pocket that had been opened to pack supplies for the trip out of Primm. He surmised the doctor had given it to him, there was a note but… he could not read worth a damn.<p>

Since finding the old edition Alex had struggled to read one word to the next. Progress was measured not in pages or paragraphs but line by line… and barely the first paragraph had been read. It was frustrating rendered unable to read by oneself, having to rely on other persons, who could misread the text, attempt to deceive. And so he tried, every night.

And yet this night turned out to be different. A tread of boots brought his attention away from the page. Veronica stood above him, hands clasped before her, curious.

"What do your read?" she asked with a big smirk upon her face. That expression made dimples in her cheeks, her brown eyes glowed in the firelight.

"Words"he responded, also with a smirk.

Veronica knelt by him, holding out her hand. "May I read the title?" she asked. Closing the book, Alex placed it in her hand. By firelight she read the title. Her eyes widened; a gasp escaped her throat.

"_To Kill a Mockingbird_" Veronica almost squealed when she read the title. "Oh this is my all–time–forever–in–the–entire–world favorite book. I've read it half a dozen times and I still _love_ this story. Can I borrow it when you're done?"

Alex, who had come to a sitting position now, looked away from her smiling gleeful face, into the fire.

Veronica misread the expression. "I'm sorry, we just met and I'm already asking you for things, and I shouldn't, and…" she was rambling, a habit that occurred when she became nervous.

Alex stopped her by calling her name with a sharp tone. Moving to one side of the bedroll, he invited her to sit.

Her hesitation brought a smirk onto his lips "I'll mind myself, Miss Veronica, but please sit and be comfortable".

Invitation accepted, Veronica took the other end of the bedroll.

Still looking into the fire Alex spoke "I was trying to read, but… since an injury I think I have either lost the ability to read; or I just don't remember how. I think it's the latter, but I am unsure". Turning in the firelight, he showed her the scar.

Veronica gasped, and when Alex looked again, she held her hands to her mouth, the book laid on the roll between them.

"So… you don't remember if you can read or not?" she asked, voice quiet so as not to disturb the peace of the night's quiet.

"I have been able to begin recognizing words and how letters sound, but large sentences I have difficulty with even if they are single syllable words. Large words, even a single one, are… beyond my ability."

That vulnerability rendered him… uncertain, open to manipulation, along with other emotions he could not properly place.

Veronica moved closer, book in hand again.

Settling next to Alex she said "I'm going to help you read again, Alex Hugh, so long as you don't try something fresh with me".

To say he was surprised was an understatement. He was always the one to help people and receive compensation in return, but always after he'd done something. Now, being the recipient of kindness was…different, and yet comforting as well. Unable to properly state his gratitude, Alex smiled, whole and wide. Veronica returned that smile, and it rendered her face beautiful in the firelight.

Turning to the first page, Veronica began to read, Alex leaning over her shoulder, reading along as her finger moved and taking in each letter that formed a single word, adding to his erased vocabulary. It was long, tedious reading, very slow, with him repeating each word after every other word was spoken, and then uttering from memory the last spoken sentence in its entirety.

They sat together until the moon was high and the stars were out in abundance. The firelight had died as they read, and the brightest light in the night was much further north.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note<em>

_This is perhaps the most difficult chapter yet, complicated by finals for a summer course, and a summer cold exacerbated by allergies. But the epic of Alex Hugh continues unabated, I don't know for how long, or how far he will go, or even how long the entirety of this beast will be… and I look forward to the next chapter._

_For now, Constant Reader, I bid you farewell. _

_Vale,_

_Tutor Veritatis_


	11. To Fly Before the Sun

October 30, 2281

188 Trading Post

0700 hrs

Alex awoke to his alarm, hand involuntarily silencing the feature with a tap of fingers. Squirming out of the bedroll, he stretched his back, arms and neck. Vertebrae snapped in various places.

The sun was cresting the mountains to the East, lighting the land in soft golden yellow of morning. Alex breathed, the air still held a crisp edge of the night temperature. Strolling a short distance, he began his routine.

Taking a stance, right hand out before him, left bent at the elbow, right foot forward, left back to spring into motion. He moved.

Palm thrust forward. Left upper cut. Turn on heel, thrust elbow. Left leg roundhouse kick. In his mind's eye, he saw them, shadowy enemies who formed from the darkness itself, charging forward. Alex blocked, countered, moving between offense where he could and defense when necessary, but never staying in either one, always shifting, changing.

The last of his enemies fell; Alex breathed as his mind returned to reality. Perhaps fifteen minutes had passed. Wiping the sweat from his face, he began the second half: stretches, pushups, abdominal curls while hanging from a table, and squats while holding a piece of concrete over his head. Whatever was available to him was adapted into the routine; it always changed with location.

The second half of the routine consumed another fifteen minutes, and by that time, Boone awoke. The sniper's sleeping habits, having been disrupted by night shifts, seemed to be adapting to a sleeping pattern of night and day. But those shifts could still be seen on the man, small tells of being unaccustomed to hours of unconsciousness during the night.

Retrieving the toiletries, Alex excused himself to wash inside the tent, currently unoccupied.

The reading last night was… incredible. In one evening, more words than he could count were added to his memory and knowledge with only the first ten pages being read. And they would read again tonight as well, and continue until the book was done, and then find a new book and keep reading.

The woman in his thoughts still lay abed, nestled within blanket and canvas sack peacefully. Alex found her rather strange, a puzzle, but an intriguing one. She stirred in her sleep but did not awaken.

Finishing his cleaning, Alex donned his armor once again. He tested the material as it lay against his skin, running through a series of physical movements to insure it still held. No need for oil as of yet, but it could… do with a washing sometime. It was beginning to retain odor o' Alex.

Originally intending to cross the overpass and buy breakfast, Alex saw in the distance something much more economical. Grinning, rushing back for the _Rati__Confector,_ he knelt on the bridge, sighting through the scope as the gecko babies came into view.

A larger gecko, an adult, was with them, keeping watch over its charges. 'Breakfast, lunch and dinner all in the same hour… Today is my lucky day,' he thought.

Slow breath. Steady pressure. _Pfft_. The sound of the rifle was hardly louder than a sneeze, but the round entered the adult's skull with deadly accuracy. Confused, the infant geckos hesitated. They were both dead swiftly. Running, Alex laid the rifle down by his still unmade bedroll and dashed off towards the gecko carcasses.

Nothing had come to claim his kills as of yet, so he took the gecko infants by the tail in one hand and then grabbed the tail of the adult and slung it over his shoulder, dragging the carcass up to the overpass and the small site where his companions awaited. In the time Alex had been gone, Veronica had awakened.

Her short hair, just coming to her neck, was disheveled as she sat up in her bedroll. Turning his way, her eyes flew open as she beheld the three kills. Her mouth dropped open, watching as Alex dragged the large body before her. A grin spread on his face at her expression.

"Mornin', Miss Santangelo," Alex said as he passed.

Lugging the heavy bodies across to the picnic table, he set the infants down and the adult at his feet and then retrieved his machete.

"ED–E, music please," Alex said. The robot, resting on the picnic table, tuned into Radio New Vegas, just beginning to play an upbeat swing piece of a man with a deep voice. The man could not be called singing as much as… crooning the words.

In ten minutes, Alex had hide, organs, and racks of meat, some of which remained on the bone, such as the ribs, resting and ready to be prepared. Veronica watched the whole procedure, following his blade as it cut at the muscle and sinew while his hands pried the carcasses apart.

"While I would not mind serving you breakfast in bed, miss, we have a long road ahead of us…" Alex stated.

Veronica nodded and pulled herself from the bedroll. Taking her bag, she entered the tent to change from the clothes she had slept in.

Of the three kills, the greatest prize was the adult, a female, carrying an egg. Setting aside the delicate vessel, Alex set the ribs above the fire Boone had prepared during the dissecting. There was a skillet by the fire to be used by travelers, cleaned out and left behind to be used by others.

Taking the skillet and setting it atop a makeshift grill of cinder blocks with a metal grate resting between the stacked bricks, Alex positioned the egg and brought it down with a sharp tap. The crack spread, egg white and yoke dropped into the metal vessel, filling the old piece of iron to the brim. Yoke centered to resemble a yellow eye. Leaving the egg for Boone to watch, he tended to the meat.

Veronica exited from the tent, raising her nose into the air to smell the aromas of cooking.

"Wish I had something to add for flavor," she commented. Coming to sit at the table, Veronica looked around at the assorted meat and hide to be cured.

"I'm curious," Alex said, and Veronica looked up. He was cutting larger pieces of meat into thin strips, prepared to be dried within the heat of the fire.

"You want to travel with us, but for what reason?" Turning away from his work, Alex looked Veronica directly in her eyes.

She shrugged. "I'm curious about other civilizations, other groups surviving out in the wasteland as compared to the methods of the Brotherhood."

Her smile was innocent, warm and lovely but also held back other reasons. And so he pressed. "That's not the only reason though."

Looking down at her hands, Veronica spoke in a lower tone. "It's… tense between myself and… other people in the order. I have certain views, they disagree, we argue and people are angry all around, and nothing gets resolved. AND my outspoken nature has landed me this duty." Veronica huffed, fingering a corner of her hood.

"And what duty is that?" Alex asked. The meat was cooking evenly, and the egg had turned mostly white. Handing Boone a metal lid that lay among the communal utensils, the egg was closed off to trap more heat.

"Requisitions and procurement specialist, which is a very nice and long way of saying I do a lot of grocery shopping and trading. Normally I work as a Scribe, categorizing any tech we find, studying and finding other locations where more tech might be. Basically a machine librarian…" Veronica gave a small laugh before continuing.

"But I want to see other places other than just the trading outposts I've been to: Vegas, Lake Mead, to name a couple. You know, there are settlements out East that are still so irradiated their water is undrinkable, and yet Mead is a huge body of clean water."

Veronica could almost be described as starry–eyed as she talked of the places she wanted to see. It was nice to hear her talk, nice, in fact, to have a human being to talk to who actually would respond with more than short answers or grunts and snorts. Boone was good to have in a fight, as was ED–E, but for conversation, not so much.

Boone signaled him, and Alex came to the man's side. Lifting the lid to reveal a perfect, giant, wholly unbroken egg, he grinned as way of approval. A turn and the egg rested within the lid, which the sniper carried to the table and set in the center.

Boone sat, waiting for the remainder of the meal to be done, staring off into the distance, not really thinking of anything… except the idea that he now traveled with an admitted member of the Brotherhood of Steel, a robot, and a man who did not know of his own past. He snorted, with one thought to explain the whole situation: 'Only in the wild wasteland could anything be possible and happen at the same time.'

Smells of meat filled the air immediately within the camp. Veronica was getting hungry from the thick aroma, as was Alex. Checking the flesh to see it was cooked through with just a slim sliver of pink in the center, a nice balance of flavors between rare and well done.

Serving the rack of gecko ribs and cut up gecko steaks, Alex tended to the drying meats, blood draining in rivulets. Removing the strips, he laid them inside on a square sheet of canvas, which held previous supplies of dried rations. The meat was lain down within the sack, rolled up, folded over and tied at the end. Further treatments would be necessary, but they could wait until tonight.

Joining his friends, Alex set to the meal with gusto, loading his plate with egg, gecko rib and steak strips. Veronica produced some bottles which contained beverages of mixed fruit juices and honey. The sun shone and music played. There was good food and drink to be had. And the company was good. Few things could come close to these moments of peace.

* * *

><p>Alex and Veronica cleaned the dishes, while Boone cleaned the camp, not packing the bags but setting items right to be packed properly by their respective owner. In the distance a different sound could be heard.<p>

At first Alex thought it was gun fire, almost ducking and pulling his pistol when he realized the sound was… odd. There was a catch in the cracks and an inhuman growl of something very old.

The beast issuing the sounds came into view, cresting a rise north of the 188, rolling down the highway on massive wheels with a column of black smoke billowing in the light breeze that swept across the desert.

The old machine was a dull green color with a scratched and faded white star within a circle on the door. A pair of Brahmin skulls rested on the grill of the truck, horns forward as though charging, and the bed was laden with boxes and every container imaginable. That the overburdened systems did not die out or a stiff breeze did not tip the whole pile over was either luck or a miracle.

Black smoke gushed from the pipe, filling the air behind with a diaphanous curtain of burned fuel. The engine caught. The gunfire sounded again, sparks flying from the exhaust as though the machine was attempting to breathe fire.

The truck reached the foot of the hill to the trading post, and the driver, now visible, gunned the engine. The old machine gained momentum, reached the bottom and began to ascend the shallow incline and began the struggle anew. Again the driver jerked, and the beast finally came to rest at the bridge some distance from where the four companions stood watching.

The engine cut; smoke continued to rise from the exhaust. A door opened, and music could be heard from the open cab. The atypical twang of the wasteland reached their ears as the driver stepped onto a foot ladder and then down onto the old pavement.

The woman removed her hat, a dusky tan and green boonie hat. She wore a military camouflage jacket, a pair of old jeans that hugged her tone legs, and a pair of golden–scaled boots.

Veronica whistled with admiration. "Now there's a successful woman," she said.

Alex looked at her with eyebrow raised.

Indicating the boots, she said, "Golden gecko hide, not easy to come by." Nodding once, Veronica continued to watch the woman as she disassembled parts from the massive pile on the truck bed.

Resuming cleanup, Alex watched the woman open crates of weapons, ammo boxes of more calibers than he could name offhand, even slide out a hand-loader bench from an affixed crate on the truck's side. The final piece was a sign, fixed to stand with deadbolts.

And with the reading of the last evening, Alex read his first words… 'Arms Merchant: Guns, Ammo, Explosives. NCR Army and Civilians discounted.'

A grin spread across his face. He could read, truly read. Dropping the bedroll in his hands, he stepped up to Veronica.

He placed a hand on her shoulder, and she looked up, only to be enveloped by arms with a bear's strength. The embrace did not last, but the grin on Alex's face when he released the vice-grip hug stopped any retorts of indignation.

Nodding to the sign of the merchant, Alex said, "I can read that."

Veronica looked to the sign and then at the man, whose boyish, happy grin was infectious as she felt one peel her lips apart.

"Mihi donum magnum dedisti. Tibi meam altissimam gratiam ago." Alex said to her.

Veronica eyes widened, wondering what he had just said… and why he had spoken that language. Boone heard the voice as well, and he stopped his own packing and watched as Alex returned to his own pack, now mostly filled except for the bedroll.

Veronica glanced at the sniper. Boone looked at the scribe. She gave a gesture to mean 'later,' and he nodded, returning to the last articles to be stowed away. Five minutes later, and the group was ready to go, except that Alex wanted to peruse the items of the merchant, the man wearing the smile on his face as he read and re-read the sign upon the truck.

Boone shrugged as way of agreement, and Veronica said yes. A wider smile broke out on Alex's face, and he lead the small group with a spring in his step to the new arrival baring gifts of lead and steel.

The merchant woman nodded at them, sitting in a foldout chair, cigarette between her lips and a bottle of beer between her legs. A cowboy tune was playing on the radio about jangling spurs, which sparked a completely random thought in Veronica's mind.

"Hey Alex, that's what you need," she said.

He turned to her with a raised eyebrow, but his smile was still stuck on his face.

"Spurs with jangling bits on them. Just add a duster coat to go over the armor, and you'll be a proper wandering man, who brings justice and iron to every fight." Veronica said with a grin.

Alex laughed. "Whelp Miss Veronica, I'll keep my eyes out fer' a proper duster coat and some spurs then," he said with a broad grin and tap of the hat brim.

The merchant laughed at their antics. "Well, I don't have any dusters or spurs, but I got the iron to deliver your justice." She gestured with her cigarette in hand, "Go ahead and look around. I'll trust you not to take anything before paying, or else" she said, picking up a pistol grip shotgun from the ground. "Bean bag shot only, but still hurts," the merchant finished with a smirk, cigarette between her lips.

Alex browsed the various items for sale. The woman had a very wide selection of nearly everything he could think of. In fact, with the amount of equipment this truck carried, a small group would be well outfitted for long term deployment.

While Alex was glancing over boxes full of ammo, Boone had taken apart his rifle to inspect the machine. Veronica was chatting with the merchant woman and the two were being quite animated in their discussions.

His hand fell onto the stock the shotgun at the small of his back, considering. He carried enough firepower and a twenty gauge was not a large caliber weapon. Alex decided to sell the shotgun, more to lighten his load than for the caps. Setting aside the weapon and the associated ammunition, he set two boxes of ten millimeter rounds and one of .556 rounds for the two rifles on his back.

Alex heard a sigh to his right. Boone set down the bolt system of the rifle, and it was obviously too old for proper function in the long term. A box appeared in the sniper's hand within rested a brand new bolt, the forged steel gleaming in the sunlight.

Rounding the truck, Boone muttered, "This will set me back," to himself.

Alex tapped the man light with his elbow."Need some cash?" he asked, but the sniper refused.

"I take care of my own guns. Whatever is done to it comes from my pocket, my responsibility. Thanks, but no thanks." Boone walked off to the merchant and made his purchase.

Ammo boxes piled, Alex made for his own purchase, and the merchant whistled, "You trying to claim title of 'Lord Death' with all that firepower?" She asked with a smirk.

He laughed but made no comment as the caps were exchanged for ammo. In total, Alex now carried 350 rounds equally for both the service rifle and _Rati__Confector_, 200 for the pistol and 100 for Lucky. The shotgun and ammo rounded out the purchase and left him five-hundred fifty caps richer.

Smirking at the pouch of 'coin' in hand, Alex stowed the money away in his pack. Turning northward to continue on the road for the towers the distant city, he stopped when Boone called his name.

The sniper stood, pack at his feet, loading his rifle newly fitted with the bolt. "You said something earlier. What was it?"

Confused, Alex looked to Veronica, who seemed nervous.

"Earlier, when the truck pulled up, and the sign came out, you said you could read it. Then… you said something else… in Latin" She said. Her feet moved slightly. She avoided his eyes but watched his hands, and her right hand flexed ever so slightly, unconsciously preparing to deploy the weapon.

_Nerves__: __reaction__of__readiness__to__potential__hostile.__Discomfort:__uncertainty__of__belief__in__ally__and__potential__friend__could__be__dangerous._ Alex nodded.

"As I stated last night, the bullet took my memories but not skills I seem to posses, intuitions and instincts I hold, nor speech. Apparently, somewhere in my life, I learned to speak that language, but I do not know where. I have had… dreams of someone, teaching, raising me from childhood. I don't know who this person is, but in the dreams, I feel safe in that place."

Veronica listened, as did Boone, but their expressions betrayed their underlying opinions.

Veronica nodded and then hitched her pack onto her shoulders and looked ready to travel, accepting his stated facts.

Boone remained suspicious, but held his tongue. He nodded as well and set his pack onto his shoulders.

"Hey," the gun merchant called, strolling up to the group. "You have a nice 40mm grenade rifle there. Good gun, but out here you might need something with a little extra." She gestured below the overpass. "There's a merchant down below, a jerk, but has good stock, and if you get on his good side, he'll sell. He's with the Gun Runner's, and they have a lot of guns and sell only to the right people. He might have something of an improvement over your forty."

Taking her advice the companions made for the underpass. The man – Alexander, ironically – was obnoxious and condescending to the group, but after some words from Alex and the jingle of money, the man loosened the tight hold on his supplies. Among those items was another grenade rifle, but it was certainly an improvement.

Alexander loaned Alex a box of dummy grenades of equal size to the 25 mm rounds the weapon utilized. Aiming at the wall, the rifle spat dummy explosives one after another, and real explosives would have rendered an enemy to annihilated bits of flesh. Alex smirked and paid out a thousand caps for the gun, a box of fifty grenades and parts for improving the machine's speed. The 40 mm reduced the total cost of the purchase to five hundred.

With a smirk upon his face, Alex set north with Boone, Veronica, and ED-E. But one had eyes for a much closer installation, something she swore to a friend she would do when given the opportunity. That opportunity finally had presented itself.

"Hey guys," Veronica said, somewhat uncertain if she should ask but committed to do so.

Alex turned fully to her, attentive and listening. Boone turned his head but not his body, listening and watching with one ear and one eye.

"There is… one place I do want to go. Not for myself but a friend." Eyes downcast, she said more to herself than the two men. "Who couldn't be here…"

"Where is it you wish to go, Veronica?" Alex asked, voice soft and conciliatory, attempting to gain more information.

Looking up, she pointed. "Helios One, it's called, the site of the last stand of the Brotherhood here in the Mojave. I want… I need to go there… Pay my respects, and say sorry for my friend." Looking up, nervous and uncertain if the tall man would agree, but Alex gave her a considerate look.

"That is a fair distance to go" he said, turning south in the general direction his map indicated the facility "at least five hours" Alex thought aloud. He began to measure out distances and time. The whole day would be committed to Helios One by his estimation.

Veronica shifted on her feet, a deepening discomfort in her gut. Why did she have to open up about this now? Vegas still lay hours north and she asked to turn around for her own want. She had asked to go with them and now she had made a fool of herself. Damn her curiosity.

"We can spare the time, I think" Alex said.

Boone was not surprised, judging by the man's actions to divert time for checking on Charlie Station.

Veronica turned her gaze to Alex, surprised, but did not voice such, merely followed when the man set their path south.

The group fell into a swift pace as the site of the objective was a tempting target to reach, a place of shelter away from the blistering elements of the desert.

On the roadside Alex stooped and dug something from the ground. Turning, he presented a small cluster of flowers to Veronica, still held with their soil. In that old language, unheard by most today, the man said, "Iacere super loco cineris ut victumae possint esse aput pace," and again in English,"To lay upon the site of death so the fallen may be at peace."

The flowers were small, fragile and so very light, and yet in his large hands, they seemed safe, as though protected by a valiant sentinel. Veronica took the flowers, dirt and all, smelled them, and smiled at Alex, who nodded, brushed one petal of a tiny white blossom and then turned back to the road and their destination. The flowers were beautiful.

* * *

><p>Helios One Power Plant<p>

1100 hrs

The massive building of the Helios One power plant stood high above them, its old walls with patches of sprawling concrete, pock marking the façade reminiscent of aggressive acne, standing strong despite two centuries of weathering. Broken glass in every window frame, sun–bleached brown walls… and a low electrical hum barely reaching the edge of perception, for humans at least.

ED–E almost every ten seconds informed them of his discomfort with the electrical interference to his systems. The two men shrugged, and Veronica gave the floating robot a sympathetic pat.

"I know it's uncomfortable right now, but we won't be here for very long," she said with a smile on her face. On a mound of earth with cacti and desert flowers struggling to survive with the arid environment, Veronica knelt, dug a shallow hole and replanted the flowers in the midst of this small, natural garden.

Standing she stretched out her right arm, turned, and the steel encased her fist. Setting the metal above her heart, head bowed, Veronica intoned, "Forged in fire, we stand against the evils of the past. We, who are born of steel and blood, stand vigil until the clarion of war rings never more." Veronica sighed and stood straighter.

Alex observed the posture, strong, self assured with purpose and belief, and he stated rather than asked, "The tenets of your order mean a great deal to you."

Veronica nodded. "Anyone born to the Brotherhood is taught to believe in the tenets." Veronica said as she turned to him, but in her eyes there was held an undercurrent of thought which belied her words.

"But your own belief is strained… by what?"

She looked down, and for a moment, Alex felt a discomfort that he asked something too personal, but Veronica nodded.

"There are some who take the Codex's words so literally that they are unable to believe anything else is worth considering, that their way – the Elders' way – is the only way, and everyone else is wrong. All we do now is just gather and hoard weapons and tech, which is never used. No more exploration, no more contact with other civilizations, just…" Biting her lower lip, Veronica looked nervous. These thoughts were obviously private and never discussed with anyone within the order.

Releasing the lip, Veronica finished, "… just stagnation, and if we can't change, can't adapt, then… We'll die out."

Tilting his head to the side, Alex asked, "Is that why you waited at the trading post? Hoping someone would come along that you could follow to see other places, learn of ways to help the Brotherhood to survive?"

Nodding, Veronica looked down, embarrassed. The perceptive insight had hit a nerve, one she always argued with McNamara and always lost because he was so frustratingly stubborn.

Other members she argues with, and… some of them scare her, so righteous were they it came to whisperings of dissent and deceit behind her back.

Alex moved forward. His left hand removed his hat, and he bowed his head. "Animi cinerum, qui sub Urso et Ferro intulerunt, recuba in pace nam tuum officium factus est." Raising his eyes to Veronica's, he said again, "Soldiers of the fallen, who marched under the Bear and Sword, lie down in peace, for your service is done." A smile, and the hat returned to it proper place.

With a breath and a nod, Alex hitched his pack so it rested comfortably against his armored back. He pivoted, intent for the road, but movement on the right caught his attention: NCR troopers, weapons drawn and jogging at them.

"Damn," Boone said, "patrol unit."

The troopers came into firing range, but they did not hold their weapons ready to fight. An officer marched, her stride angry, at the head of the patrol.

"Just what the hell do you think you are doing out here? This facility is NCR property; only authorized personnel are allowed within a hundred yards of here." The woman officer, a lieutenant by the markings of the uniform, stood before them with an irritated stance, crossed arms and possessing the air of someone generally pissed off.

Boone was the one to answer first. "Craig Boone, NCR First Recon."

Alex followed the sniper's example, "Alex Hugh, courier and mercenary."

With Veronica chiming in hesitantly, "Veronica Santangelo, uh… tech specialist."

Boone continued, "We were merely curious about this place Lieutenant but we'll be on our way."

Alex began to move when the Lieutenant called out once more. The officer approached, a name on her uniform read 'Haggerty', Alex smirked slightly. She passed the two men, not even looking at them, and bore down on Veronica. The Lieutenant was taller than the Scribe, with the uniform, service weapons and demeanor of an aggravated bear the female officer was outright intimidating.

"You're a tech specialist?" Haggerty asked, and Veronica nodded. Grabbing the Scribe by the arm, the Lieutenant pulled her towards the front of the building. The patrol followed the women with Alex and Boone behind.

* * *

><p>The main entrance to the facility was locked, but Lieutenant Haggerty had a key, and the large steel doors recessed into the walls and floor. Veronica was about to be dragged into the dark entry way when her new friends came around the corner.<p>

The sniper Boone was calm, seemingly unconcerned, but his stride and balled fists showed his irritation. Alex… well, he was visibly agitated. Fists clenched, stride long and face turned in a grimace. He came up to Haggerty and gripped her forearm holding Veronica. The area became quiet save for the sounds of weapons being readied and pointed at the tall man.

Haggerty turned, looked at Alex, then to the grip on her arm. A tug, and she was free as was Veronica, but he stood before her and the Lieutenant as a wall.

"What do you want with my companion?" he demanded, back and legs stiff as he stood among a circle of aimed rifles.

Haggerty crossed her arms. "We are trying to get this facility working at a hundred percent. It's at five. The idiot inside doesn't know shit about what he is doing, and he was hired anyway because he ran his mouth off. So I want to find someone capable to do this so I can stop being chewed out by my CO every other damn day. So, fine, I'll ask nicely. Get this place running, and I'll overlook your trespassing." The last was directed at the three travelers, but Haggerty was looking at Veronica.

Alex turned to Veronica with a raised eyebrow. She nodded, Boone grunted and ED–E gave an affirmative.

The four entered the Helios One facility, following Haggerty through a twisting series of hallways, through a room of stairs and catwalks. The place was large and very much a maze, and yet the Lieutenant walked down corridors, through doors and across catwalks as though she had a map of the floor plan in her head.

About ten minutes since entering the facility, the group arrived in what seemed to be a laboratory with consoles lining the walls, readouts and analytical systems, measuring tools and other arcane and indescribable device occupying every corner of the room. Working at one of these was a man with long hair, a lab coat, and for some unknown reason, polarized sunglasses.

"Hey doc," Haggerty called out to the man, who jumped and turned in the same instant. A grin spread across his face.

"Yoah! L-T Hagger-ty what's shakin' baby?" The man said in an idiotic, sing-song voice, bopping his head back and forth in time with each word.

The Lieutenant merely grunted with annoyance before speaking. "I brought in more help Fantastic: a self-proclaimed techie, but she does not shoot her mouth off and make idiot comments as you do."

The man, Fantastic, reeled in mock pain with a hand to his heart. "Ow baby why ya' gotta be that way? I know you know you love Fantastic. Why? Because he is Fantastic, and there ain't no one better. Now Fantastic wouldn't mind meetin' your friends, especially her." The fool looked to Veronica, who took a step back in revulsion.

"But I gotta get back to it ya dig, power ain't comin' down 'em lines on their own… Unless Fantastic is at work." The man spun on a heel fully around to face them again, struck a pose that exuded idiocy, and finally set back to work.

Veronica nudged Alex in the ribs and stood on her toes to whisper in his ear, "That's actually for the intercom system. You can tell by the knobs and switches."

He looked at her with a silent question apparent by his facial expression.

Another man stepped out from a adjacent room, also wearing a lab coat, but he approached the group of people.

"Lieutenant, always a pleasure," the man nodded. Turning to the travelers, he introduced himself to Veronica first. "Ignacio Rivas of the Followers. A pleasure to meet you, Miss…"

She took his hand and shook. "Veronica Santangelo," she said.

Alex and Boone introduced themselves, and Rivas beckoned them into the room from which he had just come while Haggerty departed for the entrance.

"I apologize for Mr. Fantastic's attitude. He is a fool but harmless, if irritating," Rivas said as he offered the only chair in the room to Veronica, while Alex and Boone sat on the floor and leaned against the wall.

Rivas leaned against a console, currently off-line. "Mr. Fantastic came here much as you were, dragged by the arm. He has since proven mostly useless but managed to align some of the solar arrays properly. No one, however, can access the main control units presently though as they are protected by a force of combat machines and turrets."

"The Brotherhood of Steel was here prior to the NCR. They activated those defenses I assume?" Alex asked, and Rivas acknowledged with a nod.

"Between the robots and machine gun turrets the main control is sealed. Some troopers attempted to disable the systems just recently. They never returned," Rivas continued.

Alex watched Veronica as the man spoke. S_mall__movement__of__calves__and__feet,__clenching__of__hands,__clasping,__listening__but__not__paying__attention__except__at__mentions__of__Brotherhood.__Shame__at__something_.

"At your being here, I assume the Lieutenant believes you can somehow solve our issues. I understand her want for results. Her commanding officer has been here a number of times, often chastising her for lack of progress. The man is unable to realize the situation."

When Rivas finished, Veronica looked up at him."Have you found anything here about some old world tech, something powerful… and dangerous?" she asked, anxiety plain in her face as she sat. Rivas nodded, and Veronica looked down.

"Fantastic found references first but did not grasp its potential. I have found several instruments throughout the facility: shock sensors, telemetry readouts, energy output monitors. All dedicated to a single name: Archimedes." Rivas shook his head, his expression shameful, perhaps at the folly of humanity for leaving behind yet another weapon to commit annihilation.

"We were dragged in here against our will. Why should we do anything they want us to do?" Alex asked.

Veronica turned to him. "I was dragged in here; you two just followed. They obviously just want me." She looked down once again. "I guess I'll have to do it." Returning her attention to the two men, whom she thought could be her new friends, Veronica smiled sadly. Again she would be alone.

"You don't need to stay. You can go onto New Vegas and find the guy who shot you." She turned away again.

"No." It was Boone who spoke. Standing, the man looked down at her. "I don't leave people behind." Coming to his feet, Alex stood with the sniper. The courier nodded as well.

Unbidden her eyes grew moist. It was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her.

"If you are committed to restoring this facility to its full power, there are two consoles that must be activated and the network reestablished to open the tower in which the control room is held. These are located on the Eastern and Western edges of the solar array. But there still remains defenses within the tower…" Rivas was cut short by the unwanted attentions...

The fool had been listening around the corner since the talk had begun, and he chose now to make his appearance. "Na-uh, no one's getting this place up and running… but Fantastic. These NCR guys are paying good caps to get power to the Strip, and I intend to deliver in full. After I get this place up and going, mine and Haggerty's fine ass are gonna' party until we can't see straight."

Despite the only light in the room being a single lantern, the sunglasses shone golden upon his face. The man wore a cocky self-assured grin which revealed just how much of an idiot he truly was. But he took the stupidity even further.

"Hey, babe," Fantastic addressed Veronica, "you wanna party after I'm done here? Because Fantastic has got the goods… and the gear," he said with a gyration of hips.

A hand descended upon his shoulder, and the idiot turned. "Hands off the Fantastic man-" Only to have a brick of a fist slam into his gut, driving the breath from his lungs. A knee cracked into the side of his face, and the irritating man fell to the floor unconscious.

All eyes in the room were on Alex as he stood over the body of Mr. Fantastic. Looking up, he saw the shocked eyes staring. "He bothered me," he gave as the reason with a shrug.

Standing, Veronica stepped over the unconscious man on her way out of the room. "We have work to do, I guess. Might as well get to it," she said in a cheerful voice. Boone and Alex followed behind.

* * *

><p>Helios One Facility, Solar Array Field<p>

1130 hrs

The sun shone down upon a great expanse of mirrors, all partially reflecting the sun's light. Veronica held up her hand to shield her eyes, but it was impossible to see properly. The whole area was bathed with intensified rays.

A shadow crossed before her, a shield. Looking up she saw Alex, holding out to her the glasses he wore. "Take them. They will help," he said.

Veronica looked between the glasses and his face. "They're yours. I can't take them." She pushed them back, but the tall man pulled out another pair of sunglasses which he set in place of the one in hand

Veronica thought the polarized lenses looked rather familiar. With a flat tone of voice she said "you stole those off of Mr. Fantastic didn't you?" to which he smirked, touched the frame of the glasses.

"He will not be in need of these anyway, and he only wore them because his eyes were so bloodshot they were a full ruby red," Alex said.

Veronica smirked as she affixed the sunglasses, and the trio, plus robot, walked down a ramp. A small camp was set up nearby at the edge of the solar field.

And as in his previous observations of NCR camps, Alex found the same commonality: laziness. The troops sat on cots and chairs; two burly men arm wrestled; a few were napping in the heat, divested of their arms and armor.

Shaking his head, Alex studied the aerial map upon the PIP–Boy screen. The solar array consisted of several acres of barren land. The Eastern and Western edges were a distance of three–quarters of a mile from where they stood now. And he was finding the tint of the glasses on his face annoying, casting light into a strange color to the more preferred grey shade of the other pair.

"So we have two locations, both at the edge of this field, in opposite directions." He looked to the three companions and thought. Shrugging, he said, "Split up, two and two. Veronica and ED–E go west; Boone and I go east." They nodded, the machine booped, and they departed to their assigned stations.

* * *

><p><em>Veronica<em>

The sun beat down on the land, but a breeze swept across the earth, cooling her in the robes. They were an old set that had seen many travels and places. To her they are a second skin, a part of her that moved with the body as she acted, in offense or concealment. The familiar weight on her shoulder, the Power Arm as she called it, acted with her will. Together, robe and arm, were as much a part of her body as the heart in her chest.

Her heart beat with a mixture of new happiness and an old sadness. She was glad to have met the two men, especially now. Alex had come off as friendly, made her feel welcome almost at once. The man seemed to have a talent for such social interaction. Craig Boone was… well reserved was a word, at first seeming cold almost to the point of not caring. Her opinion had changed since then.

The sniper was reserved but also honorable, as had been the courier/mercenary. _H__ow__could__a__person__be__both__at__the__same__time?_ She thought when he said that, as Haggerty bore down on her, seemingly angry but desperate as well. Veronica had inferred the latter by the stride, the expression on her face and a contained worry in her eyes. So she had not resisted as the Lieutenant dragged her into an unknown situation.

The dark sunglasses cast the world into a gray-black color, rendering the colors around her dim. They helped against the bright sunlight cast by the misaligned solar arrays, but she still preferred to see uninhibited. The look just did not suit her at all, and they felt… off, uncomfortable to a degree.

With a small shrug, Veronica ignored that thought and continued the three quarters of a mile to her destination. _T__hey__HAD__to__put__the__console__there,__at__the__Eastern__edge__of__the__array.__Why__?_ She thought with irritation.

Five minutes elapsed as she walked with the robot in tow. Veronica did not know what to make of the Enclave machine except that it had been under a lot of stress and wear. Just looking at the bullet hole in its side made her cringe and wonder how it could still be running. That damage should have rendered it scrap and no one save a Brotherhood Scribe could repair the tech.

She wanted to tinker with it, get inside and feel those circuits and play with the wires… but the way Alex treated the thing, as though it were an equal member of their little group, halted those thoughts before they could be voiced. The last thing she wanted to do was piss off her new companions, and she could not say as to what might set the tall leader off.

Veronica did believe Alex was the leader. The assured way in which he spoke and acted, the absolutism in his speech gave one the impression of long years of leadership. Whatever he was in a previous life, she was glad to have him as the leader. She wondered how the Brotherhood would fair with even half of the conviction the Courier seemed to possess.

A metal fence appeared. Another minute and Veronica stood before, what she believed to be, an enclosure for the computer console. Judging by the distance she had walked had been approximately the stated length, the console HAD to be in here. Circling the enclosure, she came before the gate, and groaned…

… a padlock. Of all the Old World's stupid tech to survive, a padlock would be one of them, and it locked the gate. Barbed wire strung the fence frame, and she could not climb the metal barricade. With a sigh, she stepped forward, releasing her arm as she did so. Gripping the lock, her intent was to either rip or crush it. Veronica did neither.

The machine, 'ED–E' Alex called it, uttered a series of whoops and beeps, gliding forward. Veronica stepped back as a three–pronged claw extended from one port. It gripped the lock, while another port extended a multi–tool component. The machine cycled through the tool, coming to end with a sliver of metal which inserted into the lock, withdrew with a perfect row of teeth, reentered, and the lock released with an easy turn of the key.

ED–E's arms refolded into its spherical body, and the machine bobbed up and down, while uttering a sound which made her think it was… happy? Could a machine be happy? A Mister Handy could simulate politeness and manners, but it did not have true cognition of those emotions. This machine… actually seemed happy.

Veronica shook her head, too big of an idea to think about when she had a task at hand. And what an opportunity as well, to reactivate this plant… maybe find some answers. Why?

Removing the padlock, the gate swung open, and Veronica stepped inside with the machine following. The console sat on the floor of an open air shack. Kneeling, she dusted off the floor to clear a space. Once moderately clean, she lay prone before the monitor. The NCR couldn't get a table and a chair, instead they just dropped the thing here?

Tapping at the keys with a practiced rhythm, she almost felt at home. Back in the bunker, her room was set up her way. Hardin gave her crap about regulations one time, but she got her way in the end. Her desk was lowered to the end of her bed, her own console shoved to the edge. She spent many nights lying prone, typing, reading or watching some old movies. More than once she had fallen asleep with the old console on and nearly missed some of Taggert's lectures.

Veronica sighed, good memories stained with recent disagreements. A screen finally opened on the console, the one she'd hoped for. This system was almost stupid, simple to work around, a joke really. Elijah had her do far more complicated work and always kept challenging her to do better. For this and a few other things, she missed the old man.

"Veronica, can you hear me?" The voice came from behind her. She turned onto her side, but the voice came from ED–E.

"I'll consider your reaction a yes," spoke Alex's voice from the machine's speaker–face. "Boone and I are at the Western console. I'm in the system now. I think the consoles need to be synchronized simultaneously. Nod if you agree or disagree; I can see you on ED–E's camera."

ED – E has a camera? Alex can speak through the machine?! Now her curiosity was piqued. Veronica nodded in agreement. Instructions on the screen indicated that a simultaneous reconnect was necessary for the system to work, both needing to "talk" to the server in order to gain access to the tower.

"When you are ready give a thumbs–up. On my signal activate the connection. We'll meet you at the tower base when you are finished."

Nodding once more, Veronica turned back to the console. More tapping of keys, screens opening, closing, jumping between open windows; finally a screen with a single command appeared, "Establish server connection." She gave her signal, and Alex began to count down.

At "1," Veronica tapped her key, and the screen turned black. Rising onto her hands and knees, she gained her feet, rolling her neck and shoulders around to stretch the muscle from that awkward position. Exiting the enclosure she bee-lined for the central tower, its head covered in solar panels. She felt a growing excitement at the thought of entering this lost facility, the last place the Brotherhood had been when Elijah had disappeared.

She could not say if her pace was near a jog or the fastest walking she had ever done. She arrived just ahead of the two men at the foot of the tower. Excitement tinged with anxiety now as she remembered the defenses Rivas spoke of: turrets and robots. Veronica hated both of those types. She could run fast enough to move around a foe and hit them from behind, but a machine's auto-targeting made running suicidal.

Guns were not much better as the fire power of the defenses would pin down any force trying to enter.

Thoughts of just how this little side venture, a request by her nonetheless, was proving more and more foolish and dangerous plagued and built in her mind. 'I wanted answers, and all I might get is more death.' She wanted to say it was a stupid idea for the four of them. They should just leave. Raising her head to voice this opinion, Veronica noticed Alex tapping at the PIP–Boy.

The PIP–Boy was such a fascinating little machine, unique despite the uniform design across each model. Veronica had studied the machines years ago, and one thing she remembered was that each series was different.

She remembered four series existed during the height of RobCo: A, B, C and D. The first two were civilian government tools, handy information devices, personal secretaries on the wrist. The C was used for military commanders in field operations, coordinating with GPS and reconnaissance information to swiftly strike enemy units.

But the D series… was a whole remodel on the capabilities of the device. It was given only to special operatives on high risk missions, small unit infiltration, assassination, espionage. It was a tool for the old spies that waged a secret war of information, the cloak and dagger of the Old World. What made the machine unique from its predecessors was it could adapt and be adapted for almost anything…

"Five floors, defenses on every one of them. Energy signatures show Sentries, Gutsies and mounted machine gun turrets…" Alex said, pulling Veronica from her thoughts. Turning and leaning against the door into the tower, the tall man looked at her and Boone. He shrugged. "Ideas?"

Boone spoke, "All robots have devices on their backs; Combat Inhibitors they're called. One shot to destroy it, and the machine turns on its allies."

Alex leaned against the sealed tower door, nodding at the idea. "Just need a clear enough shot, difficult though." He thought for a moment and then reached into a pocket pulling a twenty–five millimeter grenade with a blue explosive head. "What about these?"

Veronica gasped. "EMP grenades!" Alex nodded in response, and she took the explosive in hand, considering: combat inhibitors, pulse grenades… Power Arm.

"I have an idea," Veronica said, a great smile upon her face, thoughts of the suicidal nature of this venture now gone, replaced with confidence.

* * *

><p><em>Alex<em>

The door of the tower withdrew into the recesses of the frame, opening into a darkened hallway.

Alex, service rifle set into his shoulder, took point, leading the group into the structure. ED–E followed close, sensors sweeping ahead for hostiles. The PIP–Boy he had turned to his face, sacrificing holding the rifle steady. The screen showed energy signatures and positions of hostile robot units.

Veronica walked directly behind him, using his body as a shield for her to move against engaging units, whilst Alex gave the machines a target.

Boone held rear-guard, rifle barrel forward, ears open for any sound that was not from either human or their floating music lover.

Arriving at a sealed door, Boone stood to the right. Veronica was on the left as Alex turned the gear to open the door. Locks released, and the door slid into its recess with a short squeak of metal on metal.

Beyond was a small room, square, barren except for metal boxes around. Good for cover. And here were the first machines. Alex raised his rifle and shot one Protectron through its "head," the loaded armor-piercing round tearing the metal and circuits asunder, "killing" the machine.

Moving, giving time for his three companions to take cover, he fired on a Gutsy. Three rounds pierced its armor. A laser from ED–E burned the wiring to one optic sensor, and one shot from Boone disabled the propulsion systems, crippling the machine which crashed hard onto the floor. No further hostiles. Movement detected beyond the next door. Alex signaled with his hands.

Veronica took the left, Boone the right, ED–E floated behind Alex, covering fire as he turned the gear. The door opened, and he moved. This room also held machines, five of them. He was ready to fire when three blue lights swept upon the floor, moving to his chest.

"MERDA," Alex yelled as he jumped away, barely missing the rounds fired by the ceiling turret. Heavy rounds tore the floor, following its marked target. The gun spat rounds; muzzle fire cast shadows on the walls. He was pinned.

Through the door he'd come in, Alex saw Boone. The courier gestured, "assist?" and the sniper gave a reply of "remain."

The turret continued to issue fire for thirty seconds. When it suddenly ceased, Alex moved. The opportunity was needed else they remained in this stalemate. Dropping the service rifle, he took the new grenade rifle from his back, turned and fired into the center of the room, an empty open space with railing around the pit, aiming blindly for the turret and praying.

Plasma fire issued from the Gutsy units in the room before the grenade detonated. Electrical arcs burst from the device, catching the robots and turret in its effective range. Turning back for a look, four machines were down, the turret was dead and one Gutsy remained. Before firing a shot, Alex saw a blur move.

Veronica sprinted for the railing, at which comprised the center of this room, jumped onto the metal and vaulted the gap. Alex watched, transfixed, her robe billowed in the slipstream, her legs pulled to her body, right arm, encased in steel, pulled back for a devastating hit.

She thrust her arm out, fist, wrist, forearm muscles, triceps and biceps, and shoulder all synchronous toward the most destructive punch she could muster against the Gutsy.

The steel-clad fist impacted with tremendous force. The hull buckled, cracked and crushed beneath the impact. Veronica's momentum brought the machine onto the floor, and her fist continued on through the head, compressing until the machine was half the size before.

Alex stood, service rifle in hand, but staring dumbstruck at the scene. Veronica stood, brushed her robes down, and turned to him with a smile.

"That was… skillfully done," Alex said lamely.

Veronica's smile grew, and she feigned a curtsy. Boone joined them, observing the damage of the robot. He nodded with approval.

Alex examined once more the PIP–Boy screen, showing the next few floors, all the same: robots and turrets. He sighed, took a swig from his canteen, passed it around and set it back onto his belt. He rubbed his nose, "Merda, this is going to be a long day," he said.

"What's 'merda?" asked Veronica.

Alex smirked. "Shit," he replied.

From above them, they could hear the activity of machines designed to kill and defend.

"Merda," murmured Veronica and Boone.

* * *

><p>"<em>Crack,"<em> was the report that sounded from the muzzle of Boone's rifle. Another five robots lay decimated on the floor. The bullet holes, laser burns and fist-shaped dents were a testament to the skill of the small group that had intruded so far into the tower. Alex turned the wheel on one final door, and the way opened.

Veronica gasped. It was a tech haven, computers and consoles, wires, piping and barren utilitarian walls all around.

Boone kept eyes and ears open for more threats, but ED–E seemed at ease, and no blips appeared on Alex's PIP–Boy. The room was clear. That was all that mattered for the moment.

Alex also looked about the room and thought it crowded, cluttered and seemingly in pieces, but Veronica seemed to know what was important. The scribe stood at a computer terminal, examining the dark object. Why the machine was not active was easy to see. Old cables and wires lay on the ground, chewed and exposed to the atmosphere.

Veronica looked at the old metal and chewed plastic sheathing. With a sigh, she said, "That will be difficult to fix."

Alex set the service rifle into its sheath and mounted stairs to what looked to be a control room. These machines were dark as well, but from the insignia of the old United States Air Force and some of the names for the stations, he guessed this was the primary control station.

Footsteps on the metal stairs heralded Veronica, looking at each of the various consoles with a sad look upon her face. Coming near Alex, she sat down heavily in a chair, head bowed, seeming defeated. Stepping near, he sat down next to her, removing his hat and setting it down. They remained quiet.

"I thought I would find some answers, a clue or an idea. Why?" she said.

Alex had no response but listened to her.

"This was the last stand of the Brotherhood against the NCR in the Mojave. The last place we were before isolating ourselves. The last place anyone saw Elijah," she said, a small catch in her voice as she mentioned the name.

A sniffle followed by a small smirk, which eventually grew to a smile of a memory, though her disappointment still showed through.

"Elijah was always hard to find, even harder to talk to. He hated talking to people directly. Thought it was inefficient. He communicated through notes while off doing research or experiments. Never let anyone close. I don't think he could even trust people. He believed in technology, the right answers for the future could be solved with the right piece of tech, the right data…"

As Veronica spoke, she drew her legs into her chest, holding them with a loose grip. She just needed a moment, a little melancholy before burying the emotions again. She sighed heavily, uncurled her legs and stood. Alex stood with her, hat in hand. She smiled at him. "Thanks for… just listening."

Alex bowed his head. "Of course, I will always here," he said.

Veronica smiled wider, but their attention was pulled when flashes of arcing electricity appeared from the console below. When these stopped, Boone called out, "The robot fixed the computer."

Veronica sat in one chair as the stations came to life and began to tap at keys, accessing old files, engrossed in the pursuit of knowledge.

Alex descended the stairs and crossed to the computer terminal Veronica had initially inspected. Boone passed him, deciding to inspect the activity above, while ED–E merrily floated, seemingly bored and playing the radio once more, a crooner singing about some lucky guy and his lady.

Alex pulled the keyboard down from the console and inserted the PIP–Boy cord to break the code lock. A few moments later and the screen revealed some options. There was a sound from the console, and a response from the wrist device set in a series of motions he did not quite understand.

The PIP–Boy screen scrawled with text, two words, "Beginning Download," followed by a status bar, which filled in roughly thirty seconds. When complete, both screens went black. As Alex removed the hacking cord, not fully comprehending what had just occurred, Veronica appeared.

"Computer troubles?" The scribe asked with a smirk, but Alex did not respond. Veronica shooed the large man away and set her fingers to the keys, tapping with ease of experience. The screen appeared again, and the same options as before. Scrolling down, she selected "Archimedes." A blank file was revealed.

Veronica sighed, "All of the sensitive data must have been wiped when the bombs fell. But this place could still be of use to the right people." She turned to Alex. "Who should we send the power to?"

* * *

><p>Helios One, Tower Platform<p>

1300 hrs

'The view is incredible,' Veronica thought. She leaned against the railing of the solar tower, gazing at the distant buildings of New Vegas. Wind blew fiercely up there, and she kept a hand on her hood, lest it fly away. Alex was having similar troubles with his hat, and ED–E was having trouble staying in one place.

According to the mainframe console, the sun had to be at a certain position at a certain time in order for optimal solar collection to occur. That time was nearly over, and Veronica was eager to see the final outcome.

Alex checked the clock of his computer, still enough light and time to make their efforts worth the trouble.

A simple console stood at the edge of the platform. As Alex approached, Veronica interspersed herself. "Can I pull the switch?" She asked with a big, eager grin on her face. "I love pulling switches. And pushing buttons, those are fun too."

With a quirk of his eyebrow and a gesture of acquiescence, Veronica stood before the console to activate the systems of the power plant. Raising her right arm to the horizon and left on the switch, the scribe intoned with a melodramatic powerful voice, "Let there be light," and pulled the lever down.

Below, in the solar field, sounds of old mechanisms and hydraulics met their ears, despite the wind. A beam of focused light danced on the towers exterior, directly toward the three occupants of the platform. Turning away, closing eyelids tight, the beam still left an after image of white on their retinas. Upon fading, the field of solar panels, hundreds of them, was turned toward the collector grid of the tower.

Veronica leaned against the console and looked down to the field below, a smile on her face that she turned on Alex. "Thank you" she said.

Alex turned the scribe. "For what?" he asked, having an idea of what she meant but curious to her thoughts.

"For going out of your way, for giving me those flowers, for what you said before we were dragged in here. And for staying with me, despite having to go through all of this trouble. Haggerty, Fantastic, and the fighting... Thank you." Veronica turned back to the solar field, the smile remaining.

Mojave Wasteland, two hours north of 188 Trading Post

1830 hrs

The pack slipped from her shoulders and Veronica dropped to a conveniently positioned rock she now considered a chair. Her legs, hips to ankles, burned with exertion. Sweat soaked her shirt despite the cooling air of the desert.

Boone was unpacking his kit for the night but was equally as winded as Veronica.

Alex had pressed the group hard, setting a pace to make up for the time spent at Helios One, to at least make the 188, or better pass it and move further north.

The group now rested in the foothills of a small mountain west of a location Alex happily identified as Hidden Falls Park, whatever that used to be. The man was very enthusiastic now about reading but currently off gathering material for fire.

Stretching her neck, a few vertebrae popped and she sighed at the relieved tension. Sliding from the rock, Veronica began to unpack her own kit before the sun sank below the mountains.

"Hey, Boone, can I ask something" she said.

The sniper grunted, not looking away from his task.

Veronica licked her lips. "Alex is… an odd character. I mean he can fight effectively with so many weapons and is smart on strategy, but he also speaks that language. I never heard of someone with… such a diverse skill set before. What do you think?"

Boone did not cease setting up the bedroll "he is a good soldier" he said.

Veronica quirked an eyebrow, it couldn't be that simple "you're not curious about… all of that?" she asked, meaning the enigma of Alex Hugh.

Boone shrugged "I did my tours in the NCR and I have those experiences. I once saw a Ranger kill three Legionnaires with only two hands. I saw a Centurion cut a man in half with an enormous sword. I don't know what Hugh's past is and I'm not going to ask". The bedroll was made.

Veronica nodded and finished her own kit.

Alex returned with wood of various kinds and kindling of… something round and brown. Stacking the wood in a chimney shape he placed the 'fuel' in the center and set the mass alight. The flame caught and wood added, raising the temperature, until ten minutes passed and coals glowed red.

Rations were taken from the canvas sack, cooked and eaten while the remainder dried. All three were exhausted and conversation was small. ED–E played some slow music on the radio but Alex said to turn it off after dinner, lest someone her and come upon the group in the night.

Boone turned in after the meal and snores could be heard from the bedroll five minutes after.

Alex sat, watching the fire. The white and yellow hunger consuming more wood with every new piece thrown on, it held a hypnotizing nature that lulled a person into weariness.

A shadow passed at his side and he looked to see Veronica standing over him, book in hand. Gesturing at the novel she asked "do you want to read?"

Despite fatigue she still offered to read with him. Standing, taking the book, Alex turned the few pages that had been read the previous night. He still remembered parts of it and, though having gained more understanding some words remained difficult.

Looking at Veronica, hood off and ready to fall asleep on her feet, he smiled at her. "Let me try reading tonight and you sleep". She looked, somewhat, disappointed but a yawn caused her to nod and make for the bedroll.

Tonight was blustery, wind whispered over the small mountain to the west. The bedrolls were gathered around the fire for the warmth. Alex lay near Veronica, her head exposed just two feet from where he lay beneath the blanket. Book open to the first page he began to read, slowly but steadily.

Veronica heard the words, the voice that carried them despite the wind. It was a good voice to hear a story read. Exhaustion and the sound of Alex speaking each word read soon set her dreams to another time and place; in a small town in southern Alabama with a rambunctious tomboy and her brother. It was a good dream that night.

* * *

><p><em>Hello again Constant Readers and a Happiest New Year to all of you in the coming 2013.<em>

_These past few months have been a long time coming. To make a long story short, college is a privilege and a pain, figuratively and literally._

_But here is the next chapter, perhaps not what you may have hoped for but important for Alex and Veronica, something to begin their interactions and a taste of what is to come._

_A special thank you to a friend who insures my punctuation is top-notch and keeps me in line with character personality. Gratias ago, amice._

_Until we meet again, Vale,_

_Tutor Veritatis_


	12. Way Down Yonder In New Vegas

October 31, 2281

New Vegas outskirts, approaching Freeside entrance

1400 hrs

A wind had increased in speed throughout the day, beginning as a light breeze which made the day easy but had now turned to a gale. Dust devils danced across their path. A Russian Thistle, tumbleweed, rolled across the old highway before the weary group.

New Vegas was near, so near the great towers within were visible. This was a great accomplishment for the entire group. But the members were not in a celebratory mood, nor even a happy one.

The day itself was cause for their silence. It had been… a long, very unpleasant day…

* * *

><p>Events from 0700 to present<p>

After breakfast the small group had set off from their camp, North towards New Vegas. During the walk, the first hour had been easy, pleasant almost. ED–E played music, and they were not harassed.

Alex and Veronica talked about mundane topics – mostly about books. Rather, Veronica did most of the talking, and Alex listened. She talked about the books she had read and ideas of how to teach more complex word structure, bigger words and sentences.

The first hour of travel transitioned smoothly into the next; ideally the day would have been uneventful.

But a weapon was fired in the distance. ED–E turned off the music. Boone and Alex took rifles in hand, and Veronica extended her arm. Initially, he had advised her to use the pistol she carried, but a glare silenced him.

Alex glanced at the PIP–Boy screen every thirty seconds and kept eyes and ears open for any additional sounds. When no additional shots occurred, the group relaxed slightly but did not stow their weapons. A fortunate decision as someone took a shot at them, which missed by several yards. ED–E found the shooter and fired, moving right and strafing while the humans took cover.

Boone leaned out and using the robot's shots to find the target, he fired once. "Target down," he called out, settling back to cover. Another shot struck where his head had been moments before.

The PIP–Boy was reading massing enemies on the rocks to the west, and their cover was not large. Alex was nearly lying in the dirt, hiding behind his rock. ED–E was nowhere within view.

Most of the shots fired were wide of their area, but their numbers and energy weapons- it seemed- rendered an advance impossible.

Alex searched the area, looking for something to give them an edge. Most of their surroundings were barren desert with few places to find cover and most of those small and becoming smaller with continuous fire. But to the south of the enemy position…

"Veronica!" Alex called out. She turned to him from her rock. "Move south and flank the enemy. We'll cover you."

Nodding, scared but determined, Veronica dropped the pack still on her shoulders and made ready to run. When Alex said to move, she did, sprinting as fast as her legs could carry her. She heard an increase in fire from where the two men held position.

She understood what to do and knew she could do it. But she was afraid for those accompanying her. She was not used to fighting with companions. Back in Helios the enemies were machines and machines were easy to dispatch. Humans were not so easy and more violent. 'South, run south, flank' were the words in her mind, propelling her legs.

Turning, Veronica bolted for the enemy position up an incline, and she rested at the top to assess the situation: a dozen men and women, wearing crude attire and carrying an impressive array of weapons. 'Chem Fiends,' she grimaced.

Breathing, about to move, she heard one Fiend scream as red laser blast burned his skin. ED–E appeared around the corner and opened fire on the Fiends. The machine killed two before any among them were aware of what occurred and a third before they could fire back. Two more were killed by fire from the east, Alex and Boone. Veronica bolted once more, now at a Fiend.

Drawing back to its full extent, the Power Arm charged a "thrust," a devastating impact which could send an opponent flying. She sprinted for the nearest Fiend, a woman, Veronica struck square in the ribs. The unfortunate victim was thrown to the left, struck one and then another, sending all three to the ground. Pulling her 10mm, she unloaded the clip into the downed foes.

Not having expected a third attack, the Fiends were slow to react. And this cost them death.

Veronica sat on a pipe buried within a pile of concrete, limbs shaking from fear and the withdrawal of adrenaline. A shadow passed over her and she partially recognized Alex speaking something. The man knelt and looked into Veronica's eyes. He nodded and gripped a shoulder, shook it gently and stood, handing her the canteen on his belt. Nodding, she drank some, the cool water somewhat calming, and she breathed slowly.

Standing, legs shaking slightly, she walked to Alex and returned the canteen. He had brought her pack with him, and it lay against the concrete embankment. Finally taking in their location, she realized where they were: the headquarters of REPCONN. This was one place the Brotherhood had as a top priority to search and retrieve tech of any kind. Had the group not been pressed for time, her instinct would have been to search and seize everything inside.

With a sigh, Veronica turned to find Boone and Alex stowing the Fiends' weapons in their packs. Alex had explained this to her, acquiring weapons and selling them off for profit. She did not agree with the idea or outcome, but… it was necessary. Survival is necessary, and money was one way to survive. And to get money, one had to find goods others wanted. The whole system was rather simple, except for having to murder to get the weapons. That part she did not care for.

Veronica turned and walked to relieve more of the nerves from the fight. Rounding a corner, she saw two bodies, hanging from a pole by the neck. Both wore the NCR armor of the Rangers. Sighing, she returned to Alex and Boone. Unable to speak, not really knowing what to say after the fight and now with two dead soldiers, she merely directed the two men to the bodies.

Before the corpses of the two Rangers, Boone sighed and uttered a curse, removing his sunglasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. Alex cut the bodies from the pole as the sniper held their legs, setting the bodies gently on the ground. Their dog tags Boone retrieved, Morales, E. and Jackson T.

Alex set ED–E to scanning the surrounding area for NCR patrols, ideally to return the men to Camp McCarren. The machine found an outpost, and the group followed the robot. To carry their bags and the bodies would have been too much, so they were left at the site. Veronica volunteered to stay until their return.

Carrying one body on their backs, Alex and Boone trudged to the outpost, a misnomer as it was merely sandbags in a large half circle with four troopers stationed at the site. The troopers reacted with efficiency upon sighting the burdened men, relieving the bodies from the strangers upon arrival. The sergeant in charge of the outpost radioed McCarren for retrieval as the sniper and courier backtracked.

Upon arrival at the outpost once again, bags shouldered, the squad sergeant asked for aid, stating the request came from his commanding officer.

Grudgingly, Alex agreed to wait and sat in the outpost for one hour while waiting. The time was not wasted, however, as Veronica retrieved the book from his bag, and they set to reading, still very slow and painful at times to pronounce words but the effort allowed time to pass.

When the retrieval unit arrived, it was comprised of four Rangers as escort in vehicles belching smoke and black clouds. The Rangers quietly and efficiently loaded the bodies of their fallen brothers onto carrier racks.

One Ranger escort informed the three companions that someone at Camp McCarren wished to speak with them, specifically Alex. The message was delivered in a friendly manner and a tone which meant it was more than a request.

There was not much room to be had in the vehicles, especially with Alex in his armor. He sat alone in one vehicle while Boone and Veronica took the second. During the drive north, ED–E kept pace remarkably well. The Ranger escorts spoke little, somber for their dead. Except for one comment the driver made.

"Yer' damn lucky to have a First Recon watching yer six," the woman said with a smirk. "A few of our best snipers came from the First."

Alex nodded and smiled slightly at the comment.

The drive north remained quiet, and noon passed by the time of their arrival.

Camp McCarren was a contrast to all prior NCR encampments Alex had seen. There were units drilling on the field. Order. The firing range was occupied. Diligence. Officers shouted orders, and soldiers responded. Discipline. This was a proper and operating military base, no laziness to be found here.

When the vehicles pulled to the entrance of the camps' main building, a woman burst through the door, helmet falling from her hands and tears rolling down her face. "Estaban! ESTABAN!" the woman screamed.

A Ranger escort, occupying the passenger seat of Alex's vehicle, stood and caught the woman about the shoulders, holding her back and trying to give comfort. She broke down in his arms and wailed, broken.

A new man exited the building, an officer by his bearing. Nearby soldiers, the Ranger escorts, and Boone saluted the new arrival, but the man gave only a cursory return gesture before examining the corpses. He sighed, looked to Alex, Boone and Veronica and gestured them to follow.

In the building, dimly lit and very little light from outside, the presence of soldiers was apparent. Alex would estimate he saw two regiments worth upon entering, and the enormous room barely echoed with talk. The officer led the companions down a hallway and to an office, where he closed the door and finally addressed the three.

"Thank you for retrieving Rangers Morales and Jackson, it has been… a difficult time, especially for his widow, whom you saw." The man was clearly exhausted but managed to keep a semblance of formality. "On behalf of the NCR, I thank you for your service in this situation. I am Colonel James Hsu; a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hugh. Craig Boone, I am glad to see you are alive and well."

Alex nodded. "And you as well, sir."

Boone was surprised the Colonel seemed to remember him but replied sharply, "Thank You, sir."

Hsu turned to Veronica and nodded. "You are in good company, and thank you for your own efforts in retrieving our Rangers."

Veronica smiled and nodded. "I did my best."

Hsu dismissed the group shortly thereafter, and the companions exited the office, only to watch the bodies, born on stretches with an enlarged Ranger escort. The silent soldiers held their hats in hand as they carried their burden to the morgue.

Alex followed. There was an… imperceptible need in his gut that could not be ignored, echoing with a trace of a memory from the void.

The door of the morgue stood open, and the Rangers filed out, one remaining behind to hold vigil. The widow Morales was nowhere to be seen.

When Alex approached, he received a nod from the armored man but nothing more.

Looking to the bodies, Alex said, "May I say a word for the dead?" Looking to the silent Ranger, he finished, "In private, if acceptable."

The Ranger's stoic look gave no answer but the move and exit did. Boone and Veronica entered, with the sniper pulling the door closed.

Alex removed his hat and set it on a table. He stood between the deceased Rangers, a hand over their faces and intoned, "Amini omnium piorum abditi per clementiam Dei in pace quiescant. Amen." Peace said, he drew in a breath, retrieved his hat, and left swiftly, not looking behind to see his friends.

Outside the morgue, down a hall, to a corner for some privacy, Alex breathed, hand over his eyes and head bowed.

"Hey," said a gruff voice which could only belong to Boone. Alex looked to the man, who nodded back the way they had come.

"What did you say?" his tone was not accusing or angry or anything. It was… a curiosity that the sniper was attempting to understand.

"'May the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.'" Alex said. He was… weary for some reason that he could not say. The long travels and fights, coupled with being executed, must have been taking its toll.

"That's really very nice," Veronica said. The journey of returning those men home was not their intent, but it felt… good, right.

Boone nodded at the explanation but said nothing, his thoughts wondering about Alex Hugh.

Another breath and Alex stood, stretched. "Let us go now."

The group departed McCarran base. Outside the main building, another voice called to them from the widow Morales.

She stood with a group of Rangers and men wearing red berets. One of the latter, an officer by the marks, snapped his heels. His hand rose, slowly, into a salute to the three.

Boone turned away, not wanting to see… something. His hands were clenching.

Widow Morales moved to the group and stood before Alex. She took his hand, looking into his eyes with her own reddened ones and smiled, a heartbreaking, kind, warm smile. "Thank you, for bringing Esteban home."

Morales moved to Veronica and took her hand as well. "Thank you, so much." Tears were running down her face again.

Morales moved to Boone, touched his arm. He did not flinch, much, but turned slightly to look at her. "Thank you," she said, with one squeeze of his arm.

A Ranger approached and escorted Morales to a tent. The group that left Camp McCarran was satisfied with an accomplished goal, but their hearts lay heavy in their chests, their steps slower than before.

Their trek north to the spires of an old city burned in fire continued.

* * *

><p>Boots crunched gravel and old asphalt, but silence permeated the air.<p>

Alex, Boone and Veronica approached the great gates of New Vegas.

A group of young men, some local toughs by the look, watched the group approach. They eyed the packs carried, the robot following. The woman and the man with the rifle looked easy enough with numbers, but the third, in armor and bearing heavy iron, gave the punks pause. Rather than start a fight, the locals allowed the newcomers passage.

Heavy steel and plywood gates opened onto a street more desolate and depressing than any place in the wasteland should be. Everywhere lay rubble, hungry people, drug addicts and drunkards. Vendors plied chemicals and food from insects and rodents.

And the smell within the walls… was of human deprivation and decay. At least in the wastes the land did away with trash. Here, such was allowed to fester. The smell was a rotting wound left untreated because no one cared to make the situation better.

Alex grimaced but said nothing at the single stretch of road and debris. Unconsciously he adjusted his hat, it was becoming a habit. For what even he was not sure. It just was. The group walked from the entrance, offered various drugs, foods and services from the inhabitants.

Others leaned against walls, squatted in their own filth or sat on rubble. It was an idleness born of the situation: nothing could be done to improve what was established and so no one did anything. It was the easy choice.

But of all that was seen within the first minutes of entering this remainder of the old world, the most atrocious, to Alex, was the sight of two children chasing a large, balding, skeletal rat.

The rat ran past the group from a corner, and the children appeared a moment later. The boy carried a broken baseball bat, and the girl carried a length of rebar with concrete affixed to one end.

The children chased after their quarry, and even when the boy fell and skinned his knee, the girl still chased.

Veronica ran to the boy as he sniffled. The skin was peeled from the knee. He had cut it on an edge of concrete.

Alex watched the girl chasing after the rat but spoke to the boy, "What are you doing?" the tone sharp.

Veronica scowled at Alex, about to rebuke him for sounding harsh, but the boy replied, "We're hungry, mister, me and sis and our friends."

Alex shook his head. He watched the rat scurry about, waiting. Pulling his 10mm, a single shot, and the rat was dead. The girl knelt and began to tear at the rat.

Stepping close, Alex stopped the girl, took the rat by its tail and made for one food vendor who stood by a garbage barrel fixed as a rotisserie. Throwing the emaciated body onto the table, ignoring protests from the proprietor, he set to cutting the pest.

The carcass turned out to be in worse condition than it appeared. Alex cut the rat's skin off to remove the hair and then gutted it. The head came off and thrown into the fire-barrel, and what meat there was he set over the flames. The food vendor was appeased with ten caps, and the girl took most of the kill to a hideout for their friends. The boy's knee would be infected soon without medical treatment. Boone mentioned a Followers of the Apocalypse outpost nearby that offered aid to the needy. Alex carried the boy. He was so light from hunger.

Down a few streets and over debris, the companions made for an occupied historic fort, built long before the advent of nuclear technology. Boone mentioned offhandedly the fort served as headquarters and main facility for the region.

Alex admired the old structure with its high walls of brick and its wooden door. Simple in design and strong in construction, it was an admirable sight: the old fort seemed indomitable to have withstood destruction, time and neglect, now serving the greater good for all.

Boone opened the gate, followed by Veronica and Alex with the boy in arms. Within the walls was a sight of organization which had degenerated by exertion over the needs of masses. Hunger and drug addiction victims lay on blankets throughout the space immediately within. Men and women in white coats were moving about, trying to tend where the need was greatest.

Alex watched the scene. The efforts of these people were admirable yet futile because there were simply too many who needed aid and too few supplies and people to give it.

A ghoul sat by a sandbag barrier, obviously bored. This person looked to the newcomers and stood.

"Howdy, where's it hurt?" the ghoul asked in a voice Alex pegged as female. She looked tough, capable and confident in her current occupation.

"Hi Beat," the boy said from Alex's arms, smiling at the ghoul woman, who looked down and sighed. She approached and took the boy herself.

"Hurt yourself again, Matty?" The ghoul asked. She looked at the skinned knee and shook her head, turning to one tent and depositing the boy within. Leaving the child, the female ghoul introduced herself.

"Beatrix Russell. Thanks for helping Matthew. That boy gets into scrapes all the time. Nice kid but reckless." Hands were shaken around, and the companions introduced themselves. While doing so, a woman with spiked hair approached from the tent Matthew had been set in.

This woman had the air of someone in a role of leadership and yet tended to duties as any other care provider. She smiled and also shook hands. "Julia Farkas, regional director for the Followers. Thank you so much for helping Matthew. He is such a good boy but always seems to get something injured every week."

"Happy to help," Veronica said.

Boone and Alex nodded in agreement.

On a whim Alex asked, "This place is busy, almost near capacity. Is there any way we may assist?"

Veronica looked to Alex, wondering why he would lend aid when the task before them was far more important personally. The man was enigmatic she had decided, moving from extreme determination of finding his goal within Vegas to spontaneously lending aid for others. An… odd man, to say the least.

Farkas smiled at the offer. "I am unsure how you can help. There is so much to be done as it is. Overall, our supplies are always priority,so we take donations when available. Even Psycho, after separating the compounds, can be useful."

Nodding, Alex set down his bag. Veronica and Boone followed suit, but the sniper just wanted to have the pack off his shoulders. He did not carry medical supplies.

Veronica and Alex produced excess Med-X and Radaway. The Stimpaks were kept for themselves.

Farkas called over an aid to organize the supplies. A man with glasses and curly blond hair took supplies from Veronica and made for a tent to the rear of the outpost, Alex trailing behind and trying not to step on anyone.

* * *

><p><em>Veronica<em>

Sitting in a chair, Veronica looked over at Beatrix Russell. She was an interesting woman, dressed in a duster, hat, jeans and boots, the leather of which was well worn but held strong. She wore a gun belt, a .44 at one hip and… a whip at the other. She stared at the coiled length of leather, admiring and not realizing she was staring, until Russell spoke.

"Nice, ain't it," the ghoul woman said, patting the whip lovingly. "'had this beauty for years now, better than a bullet. With this you can play with your catch." Leaning back, she sighed with resignation, the only excitement now gone.

"You must have seen a lot in your time," Veronica noted and then tried to backtrack. "I mean, seen much, respectfully and… experience and..." She was yammering, not sure how to say this and wondering why she had spoken in the first place. Her big mouth was causing trouble again. It always did. She waited for some rebuke or something, remembering some harsh ones back in the bunker.

But Beatrix laughed. She took a cigarette from one pocket and almost lit it but stopped, sighed, and stowed the match and rolled the length of tobacco around her fingers. "Yeah, I've been around. Seen a lot. Done a lot. Killed a lot. Lassoed a lot. Bein' the next best to immortal, you can do a lot with an extended life, so long as you live long enough to enjoy it." Her voice adopted a wistful tone while speaking of the past.

Russell continued speaking, and Veronica listened. "I did a stint as a merc some time ago, good group, good pay. And as much booze and ass as I wanted. Then I got shot in the knee, had to go easy for a while. Settled in Vegas, took a job with the Followers after they patched my hide up. But they don't let me have fun inside the fort."

"My job is mostly to keep idiots from making off with meds here. Sometimes I go out on supply runs, but there ain't enough from Cali." The cigarette danced in Russell's fingers, twirling from index to pinky, underhand and back. As the woman talked, the cigarette moved faster. Veronica watched and tried to listen but was transfixed by the movement.

Russell stopped playing abruptly, stopped speaking as well. She stood, unfurled her whip and let it fly. Leather bound around the ankle of a man, who fell onto his face in the dirt. The ghoul approached, stepped on his back between the shoulder blades and took a syringe from his hand.

A doctor appeared but ignored the ghoul. Instead, he looked to the man's injuries, ankle and face abrasions.

Russell sat with a sigh, coiling the whip and setting it onto her belt. "Gonna get shit for that. Docs always treating people nice even when they steal." She gave another sigh and considered the cigarette she still held, eventually returning the old tobacco to its fellows in her pocket.

Veronica again stared but at the ghoul this time. "That was amazing," she said, sounding lame and not encompassing the sheer awesome sight that had just occurred.

Russell laughed. "Most people hate when I play nice. Think I'm too rough for the delicates here. No balls, none of 'em. Just a bunch 'a limpdicks and pussies." She spat on the ground and leaned into her chair, feet propped on the sandbags.

* * *

><p><em>Alex<em>

Despite the distance between gate and supply tent, the walk was three minutes due to avoiding patients who lay on the ground.

Many patients suffered from visible physical injuries, such as twisted ankles, deep cuts to arms, legs and face, bruised ribs. Others, the majority, suffered from infection of minor injuries, malnourishment, dehydration, substance abuse and addiction. The smell in here was worse than outside.

Alex attempted not to show his disgust on as he walked with a steady pace, following the doctor as fast as possible. The void twitched in that short space of time, same smells, different places but all the same sight: death and dying and decay.

The doctor looked to Alex, looked him over and then said, "Not a lot of mercs just hand over meds; hope you're not looking for anything special. We can't spare supplies."

Alex shook his head, smiling. "Then I am not a typical mercenary, just a man of the roads doing right by his fellows in need." With a nod, he said, "Alex Hugh."

"Arcade Gannon," replied the doctor. Entering the supply tent, the two men put down their burdens and set to sorting into containers.

The task was monotonous. The rhythm was a tedium of grab and place into simply marked bins. Gannon sighed once as syringes and drip bags were placed carefully. The man looked bored.

"Is this your regular duty?" Alex asked Gannon.

Shaking his head and laying the last bag of Radaway into a box half full of the medicine, the doctor replied, "I usually stay in the back, attend to my own research. During heavy periods, Julia calls me out for the extra help. Now there is merely waiting for the sick to turn one way or the other."

When finished with sorting, Gannon sat in a chair with another sigh. Alex sat in an opposite seat and leaned back. "So you are more researcher than doctor," he asked.

Shrugging the man said, "Well, I am a doctor, of sorts, good enough for this place, and I've helped enough people now and then. But I mostly stay in the back, researching what plants exist which can be used in place of current supplies. Without factories and sophisticated labs, producing medicine as before is impossible, and supplies are dwindling. Once those are gone…"

Alex nodded, grasping the concept of the situation was easy enough. "Has your research turned up any potential solutions?"

Again, Gannon sighed, removed his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. He looked to Alex, replacing his glasses. Normally he did not discuss his research, nor talk with anyone about it. Nobody paid much attention to him either, and that was okay. And before today, no one listened to what he said. This was different, in a good way.

Shrugging, Gannon said, "Not much, if anything. Between a recovering world and people surviving day to day, researching new sources of medicine is a long-term priority with few people willing to give it such. Also, if there was any miracle replacement for Stimpaks, I'm sure someone would have found it, but 'Nihil novi sub sole'" he leaned back, privately enjoying his Latin usage.

In his speaking of Latin, even though he learned from the same type of sources as the Legion, Arcade felt truly confident, one thing he could be very good at, better than others. It was vain and childish but it was something.

Nodding once more, Alex said "true, to all that you have said, but "Sol occidet et nascitur ostendere novum diem."So while nothing new exists, new ideas can be created by those who are willing and able"

Dumbstruck. Surprised. Flabbergasted. All could describe the reaction Arcade Gannon experienced upon hearing the words issue from Alex Hugh's lips. The man, apparent mercenary and good Samaritan, had just spoken Latin, fluently and naturally.

"You… just spoke Latin…" Gannon said lamely, but Hugh nodded.

"So I have and am able to. It appears to be one talent I still possess," Alex said and proceeded to explain himself up to the present time, skipping over some parts such as Nipton and killing an old woman, even showing the scar across the side of his head at which Gannon grimaced.

When finished with a brief narrative, Gannon shook his head "Alter aput me stat imago ultionis an conservator iuris ortus."

Alex scratched his scar which hurt and he jerked away, embarrassment and annoyance at the pain now. Hell of a day he was having. "I would not go to that extent, but I do what I can." A shrug and he stood, making for the entrance.

Beyond the great wooden gates a voice reverberated. "This unit seeks Courier Alex Hugh. Alex Hugh, please make your presence known."

* * *

><p>The entirety of the Followers headquarters looked about when the voice came, wondering who it called to. The doctors and staff looked to the newcomers, some curious, others suspicious. Beatrix Russell mounted stairs leading up to the wall. She looked over the edge and saw one Securitron. Those machines rarely left the confines of the Strip and were never in Freeside.<p>

"Alex Hugh, present yourself before this unit," the Securitron called out once again.

Alex moved to the stairs, doctors and patients making way for him. Looking over the wall, he saw the robot, which turned and looked at him. The screen flickered, and a cowboy's face appeared, cigarette in mouth.

"Howdy, pardner, welcome to Vegas. Would've greeted ya at the gates, but ya took a littl' detour. So, here I am," the robot gave the equivalent of a shrug, the picture shifting to a serious expression of a frown and no cigarette. "If you and yer friends would follow, my boss wants to have palaver."

Alex nodded and descended the stairs. Veronica and Boone stood near the entrance.

"Thoughts?" Alex.

Veronica looked to Boone, who in turn looked to the door and then back.

"That robot," said the sniper with a gesture at the gate, "the one that saved you in Novac?"

Alex nodded, and Boone shrugged, his equivalent of agreeing any which way.

"Well…" Veronica said, biting her lip. "I'm hesitant to trust or follow a robot," but the curious, technical side of herself was practically drooling with the idea of being near a Securitron unit. How to take it apart, even going so far as to map out where she would start disassembly… oh god, nerdgasm.

ED–E uttered a tone which inferred sadness, drooping in height and tilting to one side.

Veronica looked to the machine, again wondering if this thing was acting or being truthful. She could not comprehend a machine with emotion, but ED – E was… compelling, almost convincing. Almost. Shrugging as well, she said, "Could be interesting," nodding to the door and the robot beyond.

ED–E concurred rather happily, stating excitement of meeting other AI units.

"Wait, wait, wait…" uttered Arcade Gannon, hands up and fingers spread. "You're going to follow a machine that just asks you to who knows where, sent by a man no one has ever seen?"

Alex nodded. "I am," he replied and gestured to Boone and Veronica, "and it's their own choices to follow or not." He shrugged and said, "Sometimes luck finds me, or I find it. Thus far, I have been fortunate." With a nod, shouldering his pack, he made for the door.

"'ey, Hugh," called Russell, "you get into a lot a trouble out there?" She asked with a thumb pointing beyond the walls of Freeside.

Alex nodded. "Plenty of trouble, annoying but survivable" and then thought for a moment finally adding "if you're skilled, stubborn and damn lucky"

Russell crossed her arms and asked Veronica, "Any pay or some kinda comp for all yer' work?"

Veronica shook her head. "It's not a job. I have my own reasons, but we can have whatever is found. Though, we have not discussed anything…" she said, looking to Alex now.

The courier shrugged. "If there is any compensation, it's whatever you find. All contribute. All carry their own." With a nod, he leaned against the door, wondering why the ghoul was asking these questions.

Russell smirked. "Any room for another gun? Or a whip?" She asked, patting the leather with a loving touch.

Veronica grinned, her expression turning girlish. "Oh, can she, please? She is so awesome with that whip. She caught a guy around the ankle for stealing. It was so cool!"

Alex quirked an eyebrow at Veronica, then glanced at Boone. The sniper nodded, confirming the statement.

Nodding as well, Alex approached Beatrix Russell and stuck his right hand out. "If you would follow, then welcome."

The ghoul woman took his hand and shook, gripping hard to test the taller man. He gave no sign of pain and returned the pressure, their eyes locked and held steady.

Their game of dominance ended with a draw, Alex massaging his knuckles and Beatrix flexing hers. The ghoul woman departed to gather her personal affects and inform friends she was leaving, particularly Matthew.

Arcade Gannon removed his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. This Alex Hugh was intelligent and yet was willing to follow a machine of unknown purpose. Although, by the look of the Eyebot, this man, who spoke Latin fluently, was no stranger to odd machines.

Arcade had seen Eyebots before, only a few, but he remembered. This one was of a different configuration, a heavier frame, greater antennae array. He looked to the sniper, muscled and silent and the woman in robes. An odd collection to have at one's back.

"Doc Gannon," Alex said, "if you're bored with this place, you are welcome to join us. A medic would be welcome."

Again, Hugh surprised him. It was obvious the man was open to any person with skills beneficial to his group, but "Why would I want to go anywhere with you?" Arcade asked, with a shrug.

"You are bored with your current position. Your work turns out little results. Staying in this fortress will only exacerbate both of those. And, with us, you might find what you want or need." Alex nodded.

With a sigh, and another nose massage, Arcade nodded as well. "I'll… grab my stuff."

* * *

><p><em>Beatrix<em>

She didn't carry much, always traveled light from place to place, always enough for the journey. The most important pieces she carried, always at hand and ready. And so the pack on her cot held only some clothes, ammo, and a canteen. Food was hunted and eaten when available, dried and rationed when it was not.

There was not much Beatrix Russell called her own besides the clothes on her back, guns and whip at her hip. That was the smart way to live, few attachments and self–reliance. Before the Followers she traveled a lot, enumerable jobs ranging from caravan guard to mercenary. It always ended with some payment, and then she moved on.

So this new thing, Hugh and his posse, was exciting and, hopefully, a lot wetter than these dried-up tight wads of doctors trying to cure the stupid from people who got hooked on booze and chems. This place, the whole Followers group, just kept slapping a bandage on an open wound. people got drunk or high, many did both, sobered up at the expense of good people, then were shit faced and puking their intestines out or walking clouds a week later. People did not learn.

That and the Followers, Farkas and the lot here at Ol' Mormon, really had a pole in their asses about fun. So what if she tried to cop a feel on a few drunks or get laid by one oaf so plastered he could not tell she was a ghoul. Well, that was all in the past. Now came new opportunities and all that happy shit.

Shouldering her pack, checking her shotgun, revolver and whip, she stepped from the guards' tent and made for the med tent Matty lay in.

The boy sat with an orderly, the woman reading from a book and trying to teach him words and letters. Matty was attentive and did as the woman asked, but it was apparently slow going. When Beatrix walked in, the boy's face burst into a smile, and he tried to stand, only for the orderly to sit him back down.

"Hi Beat, wanna read with us?" Matty said. The kid had a good head on those scrawny shoulders. Given some growing up and good learning, he could make something good for himself. Or else the Wasteland or Freeside, North Vegas, and Westside would take his innocence too soon and turn him bitter or dead...

Beatrix almost prayed that would not happen. Almost, since she did not believe in any god. All that was powerful in this world were the Wastes. It sharpened those able to survive and took those who were weak. She hoped Matty would be strong enough one day, able to "walk the Waste," as was said of those who endured the world as it is.

Beatrix knelt, took off her hat, and looked the young man straight in the eye. "No Matty, I can't. I… have to leave. And I don't know when I'll be back."

The boy's face, full of childhood happiness one moment, turned down in a frown which deepened until water came from his eyes. He launched at Beat and hugged her around the neck, crying into her shoulder. "Where are you going?" he asked, voice muffled in her shoulder.

Beatrix returned the hug, holding tight onto the small body. "That man who brought you in, I'm going with him. Outside, beyond the walls, don't know how far or where but… I'll come back and tell you all about it. Promise."

Matty nodded, not speaking. Pushing him back to look him in the eyes again, Beatrix took his hand. "We'll swear on it," she said and wrapped her pinky around his. She kissed the tip of her thumb, looking at the boy who did the same and then brought both thumbs together.

"To always return," Beatrix said, giving a genuine smile.

He gave a sniffle and wiped nose on his sleeve. "To always return," Matty repeated.

They shook, and the boy gave the ghoul another hug. This time with no tears but a smile.

Beatrix stood, hat in hand, and… some moisture in her eyes, which she thought had dried up long ago by the radiation and desert sands.

* * *

><p><em>Arcade<em>

'Pants, shoes, socks, shirts, underwear, toothbrush, plasma gun, glasses, handkerchief, med kit…' Arcade checked off his list as items were gathered and stowed into his satchel and travel pack.

Clothes rolled tight. Toiletries sorted and bagged. Energy cells stored in a pouch on his belt for easy access, and the majority supply secure in one pocket of his pack.

Arcade never considered himself to be… well, anything really. Smart, sure, but not this, choosing to go into the harsh and deadly world beyond the safety of walls and guards with naught but a single gun to his name and the minimal items he carried from place to place. And yet, here it was, following a man he just met into an unknown future and events way beyond himself.

Or, maybe, he was making a big deal out of nothing. Probably. Hopefully. Yes, the latter sounded best. Hopefully, not get involved in something big. Hopefully, merely going beyond the walls for a few weeks, doing something, and then returning wiser than before. Hopefully wise enough to know not to do this foolhardy thing again. Really, what the heck was he getting into...

He was packed and ready to go.

Okay, time to go. Out the tent and to the waiting group of unknown people, who carried an arsenal of weapons and looked really tough and obviously killed more people in a day than a Followers doctor ever would because a doctor knew the value of doing the smart thing, and the smart thing was to stay in the walls where other people carried guns and protected the doctors who helped cure people.

Arcade nearly pulled the pack from his shoulders when a voice called his name. Turning he found his friend and colleague Ashton Gran standing in the way to the tent. The man was forty, head already full of gray hair, and grinning.

Entering the tent, Ashton hugged Arcade fiercely. The man was the friendliest, most open person in existence. Truly, he had a knack for drawing people in, making them feel better, and always had a spare moment for anything. Here stood a saint among men.

Ashton pulled back and shook Arcade by the shoulders. "I always hoped you'd go out and do something. You're too good to be kept locked up here. Go out there and explore. Meet new people. Do more than just sit back here and research. Life is for the living, my friend, and you are very much alive."

Arcade smiled and scratched the back of his head. "Thanks Ash, but honestly… I don't know." He sat in a chair and rubbed his face. His routine was being disrupted, and he did not know how to react appropriately.

Ashton sat on a cot, the one Arcade had just recently made available to the next doctor, one who would definitely be a better asset to the Followers than himself.

"Archie, Life is not about playing it safe all of the time. If there are no risks, then it's not living you're doing. It's existing, doing the same things over again, day in and day out. And you haven't even got your foot out the door, so don't doubt yourself yet. Try, at least. That's all anyone can really do in Life." Ashton nodded, stood and offered a hand to Arcade.

"You know that nickname annoys me," Arcade said but with a smirk. He took the man's hand and stood. After another hug, Ashton walked with him out to the waiting group.

* * *

><p>Arcade Gannon and Beatrix Russell appeared from separate tents and made for the group standing at the door. Upon drawing close, a simple question was asked, "Ready?" All nodded.<p>

Alex opened the heavy door of the fort to reveal the waiting robot beyond.

"Well ain'tchu just a rootin' tootin' sight, pard" Victor whistled at the additional sight of the four humans and robot. "Well tarnation, got yerself a right posse 'ere. Nice job." The robot indicated with one bisected arm down the street. "If y'all follow me, we can get to the Vegas Strip gate right quick." It proceeded to move, expecting the humans to follow immediately.

Alex followed as did Boone and Beatrix. Veronica hesitated before following, and Arcade took a moment longer, sighed, and then moved.

Alex had thought the area immediately closest to the Strip would be in better condition than where they had arrived. He was mistaken. Greatly mistaken.

At one corner, the group saw a body on the ground, surrounded by dried blood. Feral dogs ate at the corpse and then spotted fresh prey, their mouths frothing. The robot escort tore apart the rabid canines with automatic fire and continued moving, ignoring the new corpses. It was just more rot and festering disease.

The group remained quiet during the walk through the old city, proceeding unimpeded by the inhabitants due to their hulking escort.

Everything was a barely standing pile of rubble, and yet people lived where they could. The description of a festering wound became more apt and appropriate with every new block they walked. Alex felt his jaw clenching harder as he held back anger at the people and the situation they allowed themselves to remain in. If they had any form of determination, leadership or even community will to survive then this cesspit of human decay might become a shithole, which would be an improvement.

Boone kept his eyes forward, aware of the surrounding and dangers but… not looking at the waste. His own sour mood did not compare to what the sniper saw here; if he had lived in this shit rather than Novac then he would not have bothered with a bullet. He'd just have brained himself instead.

Beatrix mostly ignored everything. She smoked a cigarette, the wonderful taste of nicotine and addicting chemicals filling her jerky lungs, the first she'd had in weeks, and was perfectly content to walk to who or wherever the robot took them. And if the thing or it's boss give 'em shit, they'd blow the

Veronica and Arcade looked around, not looking for dangers but taking in the sheer deprivation.

The Scribe had heard stories of this place, as it was before. Avenues of lights. The great buildings flowing with wealth and outshining even the moon and stars. She had pictured this in her mind with the addition of 200 years of neglect. But this was not what she had envisioned.

The Followers doctor had traversed some of these streets, during medical excursions to patients who could not walk to the fort, the first being two years ago. Nothing had changed from that time: the same depressing places, the desperation and brutal survival of masses with little to survive on. And no one beyond the gates of the Strip cared. All they wanted to do was get drunk, get laid or get broke, usually all three of those.

Ahead, down the most desolate street yet, with old cars abandoned, burnt and warped centuries ago by fire, bodies still at the wheel in death, lining barren cement, stood the flashing gates to the New Vegas Strip.

The sun lay in the west now, four in the afternoon by the PIP–Boy clock. This day had been a long one. The entire journey felt very long, longer seeming than from Goodsprings to Novac, the 188 and finally here at the gates to a goal. Alex did not know what to make of this in all honesty.

His legs felt weary, as though they had traversed far longer, long before Goodsprings. He also felt elation and hesitation, nerves and a hint of fear while approaching the flashing lights that had been his goal for… a week!? Had it only been that long? It felt longer than that.

For his current target, Benny, this task was nearing completion, but there was something… more. There was a nagging in the back of his mind, a whisper from the Void. It was… a memory clamoring for attention, but, awake, it could not surface. Maybe tonight he would dream…

"Hello, Ground Control to Major Alex, you are clear to land…" Veronica said, standing before him and giving sharp snap of her fingers at his ear, which brought the man back to reality.

Shaking off his thoughts, he focused on her. "Uh, sorry, did you say something?"

Veronica scowled. "No, I did not say anything to the walking wall," she said, sarcasm heavy in her voice and tone. She turned away with a muttered, "Men..."

"Veronica," Alex replied with an adopted smile and tone of apology. When she turned to him he said "Me Condona, forgive me. I was in my own thoughts. Approaching my enemy has me… wondering..." The last he said under breath. Again he felt the echo of a memory from the depths of his mind, calling for attention but now with a question: 'What will occur after?' But no answer would be coming. Not yet.

Veronica nodded. "I asked what you are going to do once we get inside." She smiled, a small apology for her tone before.

"Find Benny, something exciting and/or annoying will happen, and then move on and/or continue from some point," he said, half seriously. In truth, he had not given much thought to the whole affair. He merely considered when he did confront the man, events would occur in his favor either with a silver tongue or lead bullet. One way or another, he would find a resolution.

"Wait, Benny? As in Benny of the Chairmen family that runs The Tops casino?" Arcade asked incredulously. "That's the man who shot you?"

Alex turned to the doctor and nodded.

Beatrix tried to speak, but her diminished cigarette was in the way. She spat and killed the stub under her heel. "Shot where?" she asked.

Alex lifted the hat, turned his head to show the scar.

The ghoul woman whistled. "Damn, son, you must be one tough son of a bitch to survive that. If there was a fight between you and a 'claw, I'd bet on you. Double if you went melee."

The group laughed in their own fashions. They were now close to the gate. Raised platforms stood about the entrance with several Securitrons stationed about the scaffolding.

Victor wheeled up to one unit and seemed to communicate. Orders were transmitted, and the cowboy Securitron gestured for the group to follow. The gates parted.

Before them lay the New Vegas Strip in all of it's preserved glory, gilt as it was. The asphalt, sidewalks, benches, even shrubbery in planter boxes looked well kept. Music played over loudspeakers. The scene felt surreal to a few of the group, Veronica in particular who felt she had just stepped through time to see this sight. Some patrons of the casinos milled about, many in NCR uniform but more in regular civilian clothing.

The street was long and devoid of cars and skeletons, rotting bodies eaten by rabid dogs, and the debris which characterized the surrounding areas. This place was a time capsule of the past of the times before nuclear fire, mutations and privations, degeneration and savagery of people.

All of it was an illusion and a living fantasy. Alex grimaced as their escort wheeled to the front of one casino, a great spire reaching to the sky. Of all the buildings, this one remained dark, its windows unlit and entrance barred.

Victor turned to the group, Alex primarily. "Listen, pard.' I know yer eager to find that rat Benny, but hear me out. My boss wants to have a talk, maybe even help ya out if yer willin.' Besides, strollin' into one of these casinos, packin' iron, is a sure as hell way to gettin' the boot outta here."

Alex listened to the robot and then glanced at one building which bore a name: The Tops. He wanted to end this and yet hesitation held his feet. Finally, he nodded.

"Alright partner, Mr. House is waiting for you." The robot indicated his companions. "Y'all are welcome inside but only to the first floor, though I think once the boss has had his say, y'all can have pretty much free run of the place. Heh, the first ever to enter the Lucky 38 casino hotel in a long while. Victor chuckled and wheeled to the front of the building.

The great doors parted, and the group walked into what they thought at first was a tomb.

* * *

><p><em>Benny<em>

The dice flew and struck on felt.

"Seven," called out the dealer, and the crowd cheered.

Ashley clapped, ruby red lips shining in the lights of the casino. She wore a new dress. It was form fitting and somewhat tight but damn sexy. It also made Benny's eyes light up every time he saw her strutting, either to him or another table.

Benny sat in his booth overlooking the casino floor, cigarette in one hand and a tumbler of scotch in the other.

Since the news of the courier being ressur… no, found partially alive in a desert grave and brought back to health, the Chairmen leader had been cautious, kept his nose clean and ear to the ground.

Recent news had been more and more about the Legion, about some bigshot NCR goon coming to the Mojave soon for something or other. That didn't interest him so much, only Vegas, the Courier… that smoking number Ashley wore and getting it off her.

'Damn she's a knockout, flat on your pack, ring-a-ding-ding,'he thought for the umpteenth time.

A drink, a smoke, a hot babe and one successful joint, best place on the Strip, all of it his. And soon, a lot more… Smirking, Benny took some scotch into his mouth, did not swallow and pulled on his cig. The smoke mixed with alcohol fumes and entered his lungs, an ambrosia into his blood stream. Then he swallowed the booze.

From his perch, the Chairman looked down on the entire casino floor, watching the patrons, his boys making their rounds about the tables. Many times his eyes drifted to Ashley, particularly that tight ass of hers. He'd ordered the dress special. Being the leader of a Family had its perks, such as a tailor. Along with the booze and smokes and money and all that stuff, but the woman, or women, were the biggest benefit in his mind.

Ashley, her friends Janey and Sarah, were a fun bunch. After seeing the suite Benny gave them, all three opted to stay for a week longer, especially after Benny gave them a cash advance of a thousand caps each. But after the gambling, the real fun started. In the suite.

Ash, Jane and Sarah were… very good friends, even let Benny watch. Join in once to.

Yep, life was good. Babes, bucks, booze, all of it good stuff.

The Chairman watched the floor as long as he sat in his throne, the place where all the people would come to see once Vegas was his. A smile, a drink, a smack of the lips and another pull on the fine cigarette in hand.

Benny watched as Ashley finished with one table and made for another… but passed right by it, and another, until she mounted the stairs to his place. The smile grew on his face as he watched those hips a-swingin.'

The woman ordered a drink. She had become quite used to having people at her beck and call in a short amount of time. Her fine ass took a seat, eyes on Benny. She tossed her hair, slid her arm over the back of the chair, which pulled her tits a little higher, and gave him that smile that ate his heart out. And his dick.

Benny could feel little Ben wanting some attention right about now.

And so now his mind was preoccupied from his plans for Vegas, slowly moving to ideas of what he was going to do with his three friends tonight.

Ashley's drink came. She took a sip. Benny wanted to be that glass. Well, actually he just wanted to be inside the woman, forget the glass. As he was standing, one of his boys came up the stairs.

"Boss," the man, Johnny, called out and made for him. Whispering into his ear another piece of news… a group of five or six just entered the Lucky 38.

Benny sat back in his chair, thinking. The Big Boss had let in someone new. Last time the two of 'em had spoken it had been over the terminal in his office. Before, some months ago, the Chairman and House had spoken in the 38 itself, the only man alive ever allowed inside...

And now,new person, or persons, stood within the inner sanctum of power...

Benny clenched his fist, heart racing and breath short. He stood and made for the elevator to his suite.

In the little room Benny called the workshop stood the Securitron with that idiotic smiling face. Just then, that damn happy expression just pissed him off something fierce. Restraining the urge to shoot out the screen, the Chairman was about to ask questions when the machine spoke.

"Hey there, Benny! It is so swell to see you! Did you hear the news, some people new in town! And they went inside the Lucky 38! Wow, they must be super lucky!"

Benny ground his teeth. "I want to see every angle of footage from every 'tron on the street." With his fists clenched and heart beating, the Chairman waited...

And waited.

"I'm sorry, Benny," the machine said in its cheerful voice but almost sounding apologetic. "I can't access any Securitron. New safe guards have been installed."

Benny froze. No access. New safeties. The only reason had to mean… House was onto him.

* * *

><p><em>Alex<em>

But a tomb the casino was not. Sealed for two centuries from human habitation, the place was dusty. One of the group sneezed. As they walked in further, gray bursts flew about their feet with each step. The only lights came from red orbs on the walls and Securitron faces. Not an inviting scene.

Victor rolled past the group, around a gated pit in the floor with gambling machines, and made for an elevator door.

"Over here, partner, Mr. House awaits ya' in the Penthouse."

Alex moved slowly for the door, looking back to his companions for a moment. They looked about the place with interest and more than some fear. He understood. This place would set anyone on a nervous edge.

Moving to the elevator, the doors parted, and Alex stepped inside. The ride was long and quiet. For a machine that was over two hundred years old, it ran smoothly. About a minute or so passed before the doors opened onto a brightly lit room. Dropping his pack, he entered the penthouse.

He walked through a doorway and down a flight of stairs to an… office, of sorts. No desk but a single, very large, computer terminal, currently dark.

Alex looked around the space. Securitrons were positioned to have a clear shot if he attempted anything. But he could see only the machines… Where was Mr. House?

"And so you have arrived, finally. Although without my Platinum Chip," came a voice, a rich sound, elegant even with those single spoken words.

Alex spun, looking around. The voice seemed to come from not a man but several speakers at every corner, positioned to envelope a person in sound.

"I had taken every precaution I could think of and yet one probability occurred. Hundreds of scenarios and thousands of data points, all considered, and preventative measures taken. And yet one out of hundreds occurred..."

Alex finally turned to the computer. The display showed an image of a man, sitting, reading, a side table with a tumbler of alcohol and a fire in the background. The man took a drink. The image was very realistic, nearly perfect in quality, as though it was a window and not a screen.

The man cleared his throat and looked to Alex. "But now you are here, and this situation can be rectified. I will receive my chip, and you shall receive payment. What occurs afterward is your choice."

Alex removed his hat and nodded to the screen. "Mr. House, I presume."

And the man nodded in return. "The probability that one of the Families would attempt to seize the Platinum Chip had crossed my mind, and I calculated accordingly. Benny was… at the bottom of the list of traitors, but his actions have proven his intent."

Alex nodded, right hand moving to the scar on the side of his head.

"I had been grooming Benny to become my Executor, the public face of my will within and without New Vegas. But I must choose a new protégé. Act as I instruct, and you shall be greatly rewarded for your service."

"What do you need of me, sir?" Alex asked with a smirk and a nod that appeared to be more of a bow.

* * *

><p><em>Boone<em>

This place disturbed him. And, having done the things he'd done, Boone did not disturb easily.

Quiet would describe this place. Dusty too, but that did not matter. The silence was unnerving. The companions did not speak. The chatty Veronica. The happy-to-be-outside ghoul. The nervous doctor. Among the group only ED–E made noise, and that was from its engines.

Time seemed to have no existence here, and so the group waited. It was an unnerving time, but no one moved or voiced their discomfort. And so the waiting continued.

Either hours passed or mere minutes, but eventually the elevator arrived and out came Alex, dust clouds erupting around his feet as he walked.

The group looked to their tall companion, but the only speaking came from Russell. "So, what's the big leader of the Strip want with you?" she asked, a cigarette dancing in her hand.

Alex scratched his head, his hat in hand. "I've been hired by House to retrieve the Platinum Chip. After that… he said we would talk after. 'One way or another,' he said." With a shrug, the man added, "For the time being, he's given us – all of us – free use of the hotel's Presidential Suite as a place to stay for as long as we need."

Among the group, none looked particularly thrilled at the news. Except Veronica, who jumped, let out a whoop, and asked, "Can I order room service? Please, I'll pay. Swear it."

Alex would have given a noncommittal answer, but Victor beat him to it. The machine laughed.

"Li'l lady, you can order anything ya want, free o' charge. On the House." The robot chuckled at the pun. "Whelp, come on then. I'll show ya'll to yer' humble abode."

The group stood, gathered discarded packs from the floor and entered the elevator. The ride up was shorter than to the Penthouse, and when the doors opened, it was to a… very unique apartment. Light came from a room at the end of a corridor, directly before the elevator.

The suite was a T-shape, with rooms down the corridor and to the sides of the elevator. Another Securitron, this one with the face of a police officer, sputtered, the screen showing static. In place of the face was the cowboy.

"Fol'low me folks. I'll show ya to yer' rooms," said the machine, which trundled down the corridor before them.

The group followed, Boone and Arcade hesitantly so.

Victor opened several doors, indicating which person would reside within, each gaining their own space. All basic amenities of a luxurious hotel were present: a bed, desk, computer terminal, night stands, chest of drawers and closets, personal bathrooms.

When Boone was shown his he looked around with a soliders judgment: adequate for now, until they had to move on. He set down the pack but did not make himself comfortable. This place really did not give the feeling of comfort. It felt confining.

Alex received the largest room in the place, with the addition of a sitting area, fine dark wood desk of skilled craftsmanship, and a large bed more than enough for his height.

"Pard'ner, Mr. House wants Benny tonight," Victor informed the Courier before trundling back to the elevator to keep watch over them obviously.

Alex set his pack in the room and moved to the end of the corridor. Through a door, he entered the largest room in the suite. A great window gave a full view of the New Vegas Strip, high enough to see well past the concrete walls and the Wasteland beyond.

"Wow," Veronica said, standing behind Alex and to his left. He looked to her briefly and then back to the window, nodding in agreement.

The group joined up behind the Courier and Scribe, all looking out at the New Vegas Strip and to the western horizon. The sun was setting but the light within the… Boone didn't know what to call it, it just seemed to him to be a big room with a big window, an enormous couch perfectly preserved, a bar to the right, chairs and lamps and a big… hanging thing overhead. The sniper recalled Carla once pointing out one in an old catalogue, called it a 'chandelier' and how she had dreamed of owning one as beautiful as the one on the page.

The massive assemblage of crystal and delicate metal overhead was much bigger and elaborate. She would have adored it.

* * *

><p><em>Alex<em>

The sight before him was impressive but on the Courier's mind, of more immediate concern, was dealing with Benny.

Mr. House had outlined what he wanted in simple terms, a list that Alex knew the computerized man had made just for him. It was to explain, even for a simpleton to understand, what was demanded: retrieve the stolen property.

How to retrieve the Platinum Chip was left to the companions.

His companions took in the sight of the grand view of the room for a minute before heading to their rooms and settling in, as settled as one can be with their lives carried in packs at least.

Alex remained for a time longer, thinking. The travel to this place, the people he had met, those he killed or befriended. Waking up in Goodsprings, finding scrapes of who he was in the heavy pack Doc Mitchell had carried with such difficulty and yet the Courier carried with ease of long practice and conditioning from a past that eluded him.

He sighed, removed his hat and wiped his brow of sweat. The hat stank of his travels, stains on the oilcloth and dust from the road. The armor was in similar condition, in need of good a cleaning and oiling, again. Damn the heat and dust.

Alex made for his appointed room and hung his hat on a stand by the door. The buckles of the armor feel away with practiced hands and the armored jacket underneath he unzipped and shrugged off. The weight, freed from his shoulders, felt amazing. He rolled his neck and the vertebrae popped a few times along with the rest of the spine. Boots came off as did pants, leaving him in sweat stained shirt and drawers.

He sorted clothes from his pack onto the bed, threw others in a bin marked 'laundry' and made for his bathroom. Tiled floor, large tub in the center of the room, a shower with four jets set into the wall, large counter and sink of white Granodiorite – how did he know that rock? – and a toilet that opened, closed and cleaned itself.

Looking around the room, considering the luxuries, Alex shook his head… but also conceded that this was rather great, being treated so well, a gilt cage as it was.

Before attending to his body Alex cleaned every nook and cranny of the PIP–Boy. He did not know how to remove the gadget and didn't want to after attaching it the first time. That was painful. But he was worried about taking the machine into a shower, however reasoned that it was not coming off without a specialist skill and so the designers would have taken precaution with water–proofing. Probably.

Stepping into the shower, sans clothing, jets of water shot out at his body when Alex stood in their center. Perfect temperature and the pressure of the jets he felt as though the grime was being scoured from his body. Body and hair soap was provided through a dispensary underneath the shower head.

According to Mr. House the Lucky 38 was equipped for any possibility of their needs, describing a system which sounded too amazing to be believed. The man even said this suite was designed around the groups needs and could accommodate more people if need be. The idea was amazing but hard to believe, for the Courier at least.

Shower finished, dried and changed into clean clothes, Alex reentered the apartment's common viewing lounge. Veronica sat on the couch reading from a book which was in perfect condition. Hearing his footsteps she held it up to show the crisp pages and strong spine

"there's shelves in my room full of books! So many…" the Scribe was positively gleaming, which she partly was after her own shower and a change of clothes herself, hair still wet to the scalp.

Boone sat in a chair by one corner. The sniper was just sitting with his back to the wall though he looked tense.

Gannon was reading from a magazine titled Today's Physician, an odd piece of literature to be found in a hotel but House did say "certain items would be provided in time". Whatever that meant it gave Alex the creeps.

ED – E was perched on a table near a wall socket while playing the radio, an upbeat swingin' tune.

Russell seemed to be the calmest among the group, standing outside on a small balcony where she was enjoying a cigarette and bottle of whiskey. Despite the feeling of being watched she was enjoying the hospitality of the de facto ruler of New Vegas.

Especially the quality of the food; in the midst of the lounge were two carts laden with plates of food. So much, in fact, if properly stored and rationed it would last weeks, maybe a couple of months. But here it all was, laid out for their enjoyment.

Alex did not bother to see what he grabbed. He just filled a plate and ate, hardly caring for manners. When he heard a giggle he looked up and saw Veronica covering her mouth. Gannon was equally trying hard not to laugh.

As the Courier, Scribe, and Followers doctor just stared at each other, the latter two broke out laughing and soon all three were. That broke the tension a little and soon the five companions were supplied with plates, food and drink.

Sitting in comfortable chairs they discussed the situation, fully aware of their host listening.

Waiting…

Planning…

Adding plans on top of plans, contingencies for contingencies. He would not make the same mistake twice.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note:<em>

_Good day my constant readers, it has been far too long since we have last met. I hope all are well and life is good. _

_Apologies for my long absence but this last semester was particularly heavy in course load but, good news, I am a graduate and have a Bachelors degree. This Fall I will enroll in a master's program which, I hope, will give me more time to write as many classes are in the evenings. I will try to write more, I have plenty in mind already, during the summer. I would have gotten this out earlier but... Life has it's ways, does it not._

_Just to clear one thing up that was pointed out to me by my dear Latin expert, editor and friend Gufetto: Gannon and Ashton Gran are friends and colleagues, nothing more. In fact Gran treats Arcade as more of a "I'll push you out that door if you don't go yourself" type relationship. They are great friends and I may use Gran in more chapters. Also, Ashton Gran is based on a great friend of my own. He is a saint among men in my opinion and is good to the people he works with and for. It was difficult to give Gannon a reason to go out into the world without being pushed and so was inspired. So, perhaps, this is just a little ode to this good man whom I have had the pleasure of knowing for six years now.  
><em>

_That's all for now, _

_Vale,_

_Tutor Veritatis_


	13. The Snake, I

November 1, 2281

The New Vegas Strip, Lucky 38 Casino Hotel

0000 hrs

Doors crashed open and muttering, which escalated into screaming bloody murder, echoed throughout the tomb of the Lucky 38 Casino/Hotel. The group which entered consisted of three men, in suits, one wearing a hat that somewhat concealed his face, with frayed cuffs and hems but still immaculate in color, and two women, one in a dress equally as frayed as the men's suits but retained the deep forest green dye from two hundred years ago. The other woman wore leather armor, playing the role of a bodyguard of rich gamblers come to the New Vegas Strip in order to ply their luck.

But this night was not one with luck, of the type hoped for. And thus gave rise to the swearing and cursing.

For the amount of time Craig Boone had known Alex Hugh, the man had seemed cool in most situations, even ones of great stress. He was straightforward, courteous and gave his best effort and took what results he could get with an ease most men would call easy going. Boone saw somewhat more than that, behind the manners was a soldier, a damn good one, and walking through one fight to the next tempered the fires of what anger lay beneath the surface.

Veronica Santangelo who, on first meeting Hugh and Boone, believed she could trust them, an idea bolstered greatly by Hugh detouring so far in his own efforts to bring her to Helios One and the subsequent firefight there in. And he listened to her ideas and whatever she had to say on her mind. Also the reading, she felt good helping someone who was helping her, lightened her heart so to speak of the more weighty ideas and memories she carried with her.

Tonight, however, both Boone and Santangelo were afraid of Alex Hugh. When in anger, the man was a terror though he never directed that attention to his comrades.

Standing in the pit before the elevator, Hugh shouted, cursed in Latin which turned Doctor Gannon's face bright red and then brighter still when the vulgarities continued. Finally, when it seems vocalizing his outrage was not enough; the Courier spun and kicked a slot machine, taking the metal and plastics off its stand to crash against the railing.

Finally spent, Alex slumped onto the carpeted steps of the pit, releasing a cloud of dust, which brought about a sneeze. Behind him, he heard a collective sigh.

First came a rap of knuckles on his shoulder, from Boone which amazed the courier, as the sniper removed his beret to wipe sweat from the near-bald scalp. He sat on a slot machine stool and turned to the group.

Veronica sat next to him with a worried, cautious smile. Drawing up her knees to rest her chin on them she remained silent but her presence quelled some of the fire Alex felt.

Gannon and Russell took stools of their own, the doctor looked nervous and the ghoul annoyed from the night's events.

"Thank you for finally calming yourself Mister Hugh, now if you would, please report the events of you efforts in concise chronological order. And speak clearly for records." Came the voice of Mister House, appearing on the screen of one Securitron which positioned itself between the group and elevator, indicating if their report was not positive then the casino would be closed to them. "I assume you found Benny and that the Platinum Chip is in your possession?" asked the machine.

A breath to calm himself Alex stood, hands behind his back. "No sir, the Platinum Chip is not on my person. Benny has fled to parts unknown" there was a temptation, an instinct to bow his head but House would consider the gesture one of failure and humiliation. To show strength and ability would win the argument in their favor.

The House-robot remained quiet for a time, perhaps thirty seconds or more before "Then report." The short reply bringing to mind, if the man were alive and possessing a body, then his arms or hands would be crossed in some manner accompanied with an expression of disappointment of an employer and employee.

Sighing, Alex began "As we departed the casino for The Tops, we planned our efforts. Use methods in gambling to favor our own outcomes over other players. We planned our roles for the evening, who would play at what games and agreed who ever attracted Benny's attention first would order a specific drink to be served to the others as a signal to gather."

Taking a breath, Alex glanced around to the others if they desired to add anything, when nods to continue were given "We did not encounter any trouble until entering the casino itself, where Miss Russell was harassed for her physical disposition." to which she snorted.

"Once inside the casino we split up for respective stations and began to gamble. Our efforts were long but paid off finally…"

* * *

><p>Bells chimed as the slot machine struck triple fruits. Alex smirked as the machine spilled coins into the tray in his lap. By now he'd attracted a crowd of onlookers amazed at his skills. They clapped with each win.<p>

Elsewhere, Craig Boone rolled two die between his fingers. It was an old trick a buddy from training had shown him. His wrist snapped out, the two plastics flew and struck the opposite wall. The final results were just as his buddy had said, seven. Every time, no failure. He would smirk but that would just be out of character for him.

Veronica and Arcade had accepted alcohol on the house and were somewhat inebriated. The doctor talked about things such as the massive economic failure of the early 21st century which lead to the greater tensions with China as to reasons for the war and how poorly the system had been constructed to stop the breakdown. The Scribe talked on end about electronics to the bemusement of the fellow gamblers, and both of their drunken giggles forced several away.

Beatrix _wanted_ to be drunk and spilling caps all over the damn place, she'd never been inside one of the swanky casinos, only the Wrangler and that place was shit by comparison. Sure it had booze, ass and plenty of game but it stank and let in every asshole off the streets, most of whom turned their noses up at her. Also, she could not enter the Wrangler anymore, too many fights… _'Fuck it.'_ she thought and pulled on her cigarette, she was enjoying her freedom as it was, and she could drink her ass off later.

Alex leaned forward to drop another chip into the machine and pulled the lever. He understood the system of payment but not entirely sure as to why there were pictures. Maybe, at one time, people could not read numbers and so made values understood by images. He doubted it but also did not care, not important in this moment.

As the wheels of the machine spun, Alex leaned forward as though in anticipation. For that was indeed he needed to show but not for the results but waiting for the right moment. When the first symbol dropped, a BAR in black and white, he touched the machine. Small lances of electricity arced between his gloved hand and the metal casing and the BAR was joined by its copies. Bells rang and lights flashed, the machine spilled out coins and the bin quickly filled to overflow onto the floor.

Alex laughed and the crowd joined in, clapping merrily at his assumed success. A floor boss approached with a grin and bottle in hand "Here, compliments of the house, hope ya stay longer so we can get some of our luck back." the man jokingly punched him in the arm.

"Glasses all around if you please, these folks look thirsty!" Alex shouted, lifting the bottle of whiskey overhead and the crowd clapped louder with a few laughs. The drink was shared with the courier not taking a sip and he sat to win once more. Two more buckets came by and the spilled coins dumped in. The next symbols turned out to bells.

* * *

><p><em>Benny<em>

Benny grunted as "Ben Junior" twitched, spilling himself on the girl's body. It wasn't his usual pleasurable evening; no tonight was all going to shit.

He'd come to the suite for answers and now he was in the dark, wondering what exactly House's next move would be. All the Ben-man knew was his move had to be smooth if he wanted to ride his way to the tops, when a knock came at his door.

"I'm busy!" he shouted, getting ready for another round.

"We've got some high rollers makin' serious caps downstairs." said the man, one of the few Benny trusted to stay on his floor, down the hallway from his suite.

Grumbling, he got off… the girl. He didn't remember her name, everything that had happened, so quickly, had pushed anything else, including the names of his newest 'friends'. He didn't care; his ass was on the line, more than any other time.

Dressing in a half-assed manner, Benny spotted himself in the mirror. _'Shit.'_ he thought, eyes harried and near panic, hair a mess and sweaty. And his suit… damn! "Be out in fifteen." he called. A five minute shower, seven to oil his hair and pull it into the right shape, and then two and a half to dress.

Seconds to spar, Benny stepped into the hall cool and calm, smoother than his threads. Not looking at the man who'd called his attention, he entered the elevator, thinking _'Play my cards right, wrap things up and then get outta town.'_ he nodded, smirking.

Arriving on the casino's floor he stepped off and snapped his fingers. His boys knew what he wanted without needing to be told, a cig and scotch. Benny took his throne, to watch over The Tops floor, and scanned the milling crowd. He spotted three groups, one at Craps, Poker and Slot. Easy enough to spot with the crowds around each of them, and the cheers from each came quickly for each.

The drink arrived and the cigarette he lit with an old cardboard match. Damn he missed that sweet zippo. A drag, a drink and Benny relaxed "Give 'em booze and food for now, watch until I say." he did not look around, already seeing his orders being carried out.

* * *

><p><em>Arcade and Veronica<em>

She laughed as the doc explained something that made sense… but all she felt was bubbling laughter.

"And when the old U.S… let the big bankers go after their first mistakes, no punishment, no apologies… they made the same investments, same idea, and _that_ began the second Great Depression, and there was no world war to pull the country out of that one, just got worse and worse. And the lawmakers _thought_ they had fixed the system, _thought_ what happened could not happen again and then…"

Gannon gestured and made sound effects of giant explosions and Veronica laughed her ass off, almost literally as she teetered on her stool. This was so much FUN! Why hadn't she come to Vegas sooner, or let herself have this much _fun_! OR A DRESS! She squealed again, hugging herself and the dress. It felt so nice to wear a dress, finally! It was simple but comfy and a nice color too.

Veronica slumped against Arcade "Hey doc?" she said, poking his ribs which he tried to pull away from but his arm wrapped around her shoulders.

"What?" he asked, the drunken grin evident in his voice with Veronica needing to look.

"You'd make a really cute and pretty girl." and she could not hold back. Veronica laughed, tears rolled down her face and she pulled and slumped onto the card table, palm slapping the felt in her gaiety.

"And you'd make a sexy guy." said Arcade, also falling into gales of laughter, falling off the stool.

Beatrix sighed and shook her head, wishing she was drunk _and_ away from these chuckle heads. She stepped forward and dragged the doc back on his ass, looking in his eyes for a sec. Yep, no more for this lightweight and by the looks of the girl her neither.

Leaving the doc on the floor, Beatrix turned the card "21!" she called out, giving a laugh of her own as the dealer himself slumped, almost crying as the chips were paid out. Not sticking around, the ghoul scooped the plastic into a bucket, grabbed Gannon and Santangelo, hauled them bodily away from the tables towards the Hugh.

* * *

><p><em>Boone<em>

Flick of the wrist, dice flew and struck. Another number called and true, the sniper impassive as the chips piled before him. A small collection of stuff, courtesy of the house, stood to one side, mostly booze. After his last time he was not going back. Not for a while at least. Now he had something to occupy his mind, a mission, a reason.

Out of the corner of one eye he spied Russell dragging Gannon and Santangelo away from their table. Had Boone not been stoic already, the scowl on his face would have deepened. Internally though he sighed, believing the mission could be, would be, and compromised with this misstep.

Deciding to cash out himself, he called for two buckets for the chips. He hoped Hugh had a plan, something to lure this Chairman out now that the others were drunk near to unconsciousness. So far he felt nothing had been accomplished.

Turning, leaning against the table he noticed his own crowd, a few men and a number of woman who turned and tried to act cool about the leaving but he saw their hands hiding smiles and suppressed giggles. He sighed, Carla was always better at this… thing. Socializing. Shrugging, Boone scooped the chips into the buckets provided and carried these to Hugh's slot machine, eyeing the crowd out of old habits.

The courier was having a great deal of 'Luck' with four buckets of chips full already and two more awaiting. While the sniper did not know how he knew that tool on his arm was doing all the work. And damn it was working. He'd heard in the past, before the bombs fell, no one had ever broken Vegas, never beaten the casinos out of their money.

If the Chairmen did not stop the lucky courier soon then that old myth would be broken very soon.

* * *

><p><em>Alex<em>

Alex pulled the lever again, the wheels spun, and landed on the black and white BAR once more. The machine cascaded coins into his lap and he took one bucket underneath the mouth, stooping to gather the fallen chips.

When he stood, another one of the floor bosses stood nearby with a forced grin on his face

"Thanks for playin' but you're done here, enjoy the theatre or the bar, get a room fer yer friends, but you're done gamblin'."

The crowd booed in response, some calling prejudice for a lucky gambler but the man would have none of it and gathered some thugs to shoo the people away. But the gathered members of the Chairmen did not go back to their rounds, instead stood by Alex and his companions.

"Our boss wants to see ya." and by the look on his face Alex assumed the boss was not exactly happy with the way he'd won at their games.

Chips gathered, and after checking on Veronica and Arcade who he initially thought should go back to the 38 but the man and woman waved him off, giving him exaggerated winks before following with uneasy steps.

The floor boss lead the group through the casino floor, up a flight of stairs and onto a balcony where a man sat on what Alex thought could pass as a throne; and the seated man a king overlooking his subjects. At least that was the impression given, especially when the man and chair turned to see the newcomers.

Despite the poor memory Alex knew the man in a moment. Benny. And Benny knew of him as well.

Benny paled under the scrutiny of Alex. Sweat appeared on his flesh and breathing became laborious. A wet spot appeared and grew in his pants.

"The guests you requested boss." said the floor boss, acting stiff and professional before his leader.

'_To these people, The Chairmen, Benny was more than a casino owner, one of three in the New Vegas Strip. He led a people, a tribe.'_ Alex thought while observing the floor boss but he returned his gaze back to the man in question.

A credit to himself, despite being a coward, Benny was quick to act with tact. He crossed his legs to hide the wetness and smirked, though terrified, at Alex and companions "Thanks Bo, 'preciate it" he said to the floor boss who nodded and returned to his rounds.

"Why don't ya have a seat pally, have ourselves a nice talk, nice and smooth ya dig?" Benny used what could be a charming smile but it covered up his fears.

Alex nodded and gestured for his friends to seat themselves before himself. Boone, Arcade and Beatrix on one side of the observatory deck with Alex and Veronica on the other, and the scribe gave the courier a smile, feeling happy the person responsible was in reach and finally some answers could be had.

"It's been too long Benny ol' boy, how ya been?" Alex asked, the happy expression on his face one that his companions, even the newest ones, could see hid a very violent and angry tirade back.

Benny squirmed, trying to keep cool. He took a pull of smoke and chased with scotch "Oh, normal stuff, Things for Vegas, my baby The Tops ya see, looking to bring in somethin' new and fresh."

Alex nodded "Well it's good to hear about success as always however." removing his hat to reveal the scar which caused Benny to cringe "my employer wants his property returned, rather badly you see, and has tasked me to do so. Calling me 'a wasteland vagrant' but one with skills which, when properly directed and hones, may be used to great effect."

Despite himself Benny snorted "Old House does have a flair for the dramatic don't he?"

Alex nodded "Yes. He's willing to forgive if you return the chip, remove yourself from his direct employ as executor and swear allegiance to not make another attempt and follow his orders without fail." shrugging, the courier finished "Those were his terms, his words, and it's definitely a take it or leave it gesture."

Benny breathed, actually sighing a few times. "Ya got me pally, you and House, front and center, dead to rights, ya got me good and now I gotta face the music and it ain't the Rat Pack singin' this tune." finishing the cigarette and scotch, he stood and gestured "I got the chip upstairs and we can talk more d's about the deal, eh?"

Alex stood as well with his companions. Arcade over balanced and almost fell but caught himself on Boone who looked at the doctor's hand and then the doctor's eyes. Gannon retreated a pace, clearing his throat out.

Veronica almost slipped on her high heels but caught herself on Alex's sleeve, prompting the scribe to laugh the mistake off but he could tell the slip embarrassed her. He gave a reassuring nod and gestured to follow after Benny, the Chairmen's stride swift but jerking and terrified. And he did not stop talking.

"I gotta admit pally, you're one tough nut to crack. First I hear about that tiny town, eh Goodsprings, and then came all sorts a stories. Primm, Nipton, Novac. What'chyou been doing since last we saw eye to eye, trying to save the world?" Benny grinned as he pressed a button to a luxurious elevator which read 'Presidential Suite'.

Alex shrugged "Just happen to come across trouble, right place right time sorta thing and did what I could. Never gave it much thought."

Benny turned an honest puzzled look to the courier "You're serious. Honestly, trying to help people because… you can?" he shook his head, the elevator descending swiftly if the numbers were a good indication of its location "never heard of a bonafide, true to life, hero in these parts."

Alex shrugged, shuffling his feet, the idea of 'hero' not settling well with him "It's not as though I make an effort to find trouble and give help, and it's not really out of my way when I did it."

"Sure, sure." Benny said, landing a single pat on Alex's shoulder, which both men stared at for a moment before moving apart. The elevator arrived and the party stood onboard. "Sorry, I, ugh, never got your name." the Chairman stuck out his hand, which trembled.

For a moment, Alex considered not taking it. And then thought that idea was childish and not a step towards reconciliation. The Courier took the Chairman's hand, shook once, firmly, conveying his strength and confidence but not trying to render Benny into submission.

"Alex Hugh." he said with a nod and Benny nodded.

* * *

><p>Lucky 38<p>

0030 hrs

"Our talks seemed to go well after entering the suite, Benny poured drinks but I did not partake. We talked in detail of your offer, the peace agreement, returning the Platinum Chip, sometimes going into tangents due to nervousness on his part and my going along with it for Benny's sake, ease him into a position where he believes the deal is good."

Pausing for a breath House interjected with a statement "Then Benny learned well from my tutelage. I instilled in him a sense of paranoia during dealings; if the offer was good always negotiate for the best outcome. If such could not be reached, alternative actions were warranted, up to and including intimidation and use of applied force when needed."

Alex nodded "He learned well, then. When the talks seemed to be over…"

* * *

><p>The Tops Casino Hotel<p>

2350 hrs

Benny sighed, nodding "A'right, I agree, the jig is up and now's time to pay the dues." he stood, unsteady on his feet after three scotches and then switching to bourbon. The Chairman was certainly not at his best, he stank of urine, hair disheveled, tie undone, shirt out of pants and jacket wrinkled. He looked, outwardly, broken and defeated.

The group sat in the sitting area of the suite, three couches arrayed in a square with a low table between them. When Benny stood, Alex moved as well. Both men looked into each other and the latter looked away "I'll get… the chip… go with you to House… tell 'em I resign." shoulders slumped, feet dragging.

Benny pressed the button to the elevator, after two failed attempts and a successful third, the doors slid open and he stepped inside, alone.

Alex stood and motioned for the others to follow suit, gesturing to get behind the bar and wait.

"What's going on?" Arcade asked but was following because he honestly did not know what to do.

"Depressus anguis adhoc ater adversaries est" he said and the doctor hastened. Veronica and Boone looked at him, Alex gave the English version of what he had said and the two followed suit, leaving the courier to take cover by a table, a good enough shelter…

And this forethought proved useful as four men, dressed in suits, entered the room with submachine guns slung over their shoulders.

Alex reacted; shoulder the table over on its side and crawling towards the bar. Automatic fire filled the suite, chewed the table to shreds and the shelter of the bar, though made of wood and stone, still cracked and splintered under the assaults.

The Chairmen unloaded full thirty round magazines into the area, not bothering with conservation and going for a spray-and-pray approach. When the clips clicked empty, silence, deafening almost, held for a count of two seconds.

Long enough for Alex to stand and pull Lucky from a shoulder holster cinched snug against his chest. His perception of time slowed to micro seconds as the PIP-Boy's tactical assistance augmented his ingrained skills.

In the eyes of the Courier, the Chairmen seemed to stand still, unable to move as the guillotine descended… the revolver fired, gas erupted and the bullets flew and the gun barely moved as it centered on the second, third and fourth targets.

The Chairmen only saw a blur and heard swift cracks before death.

Time snapped back into normalcy and Alex gasped, sweating and heart beating hard. Though exhausting he was learning the limits and costs of the tactical system, coming to understand its draw on the body and his own limits. Were the courier not in great physical form he believed the drain would be far greater. After a minute he straightened and rounded the bar for the elevator. A call on the intercom box stopped him.

"The cleaning crew will be up in five." Benny's voice.

Alex scowled and moved to the intercom, pressed the button "You failed, again, Benny. Last chance to give up and it's going fast."

Only silence met the statement and Alex gestured for the others to follow. Beatrix grabbed the Chairmen's fallen SMG's and found spare clips for each. Veronica, Arcade and Boone took one as Alex reloaded the revolver, holstered it and punched the button for the casino floor.

Russell was smirking as she checked her new gun "Sweet" she said, shoulder the stock and staring down the sights "Gunna have fun with this handsome boy."

The elevator arrived and the group was surprised to see Securitrons roaming the floor announcing "Gunfire detected on premises, please vacate 'The Tops' for your safety." one of the mechanized police force approached Hugh and the screen shifted to Victor, not with its usual happy smile but a serious frown.

"Pard'ner that snake Benny took a second elevator to his suite, get up there quick and check the scene." the robot directed the group to the appropriate car and rode to an empty floor.

Boone and Russell swept the floor and the sniper gestured all clear. Arcade looked nervous with the weapon but Veronica handled it expertly. A few doors dotted the walls and the group split up to check each room. None of them seemed to contain Benny but the last one held evidence of the man, a suite with a few personal touches, and a bedroom where three women slept.

Alex gestured for quiet and searched the apartment. Benny was gone but they found a false wall and a workshop, within was a Securitron unit which Veronica questioned as Alex proceeded, finding a tunnel and escape elevator, locked down by the last user.

And for the first time that night, Alex swore in anger.

* * *

><p>Lucky 38 Casino Hotel<p>

0100 hrs

Report finished Alex stood before the House-Securitron. He worried for the coming assessment, what could happen. Would House throw them out for the failure? Give him more difficult tasks? Such thoughts crowded his thinking spaces and breathing became deeper, attempting to calm and quiet his mind.

"A negative result, not ideal but still accomplishing other criteria I had set for you. Though the Platinum Chip was not acquired, you and your group have shown skills that are of value to my plans. Continue to deliver results of this or better quality and you shall be rewarded for your efforts. In the morning, I have more to discuss. Come to my office at nine o'clock exactly."

The machine switched back to Victor's face, now featuring the smiling, smoking cowboy face "well aren't you just a rootin' tootin' hombre pardner. That snake in the grass got away but you still got the job done." the robot laughed.

Alex sighed and a few of the others did as well, a couple yawned "I think it's been a long night." he said and entered the elevator.

The ride was quiet besides a small comment made by Veronica "Well we still get the sweet homebase, even if it is somewhat creepy. And I got to wear a dress tonight." As the car reached the suite, she stepped passed the others and twirled once, causing her skirt to swish, smiling contented.

Beatrix chuckled "You looked mighty fine tonight."

Veronica smirked and winked "You too, I'd have asked for a dance if we'd had time."

Beatrix smirked and stood before the scribe, took her hands and they twirled with laughs. After two turns they stopped and Veronica gave Russell a hug.

"Thanks for the dance, next time let's have a band." Veronica giggled.

"You got it toots" Beatrix said, breaking from the girl and moving to her own room "Night all."

Arcade put on a hurt expression "And we're supposed to be the wall flowers I assume?"

Alex and Boone snorted; the sniper stepped off the car and made for his room with a muttered "Good night."

"Oh I wouldn't want you boys to feel left out. You can draw straws for my attention." Veronica giggled harder, looking between Alex and Arcade "Mmm, so hard to choose."

Arcade snorted and made for his room also "Well I wouldn't want to make competition. Good night Alex, Veronica" Nodding to both.

Just as Alex was about to start for bed, Veronica dropped on his left side, hugging his side "I'd dance with you, no question." she seemed to be falling asleep on her feet. He smiled and held her shoulder, helping to her room.

"I'd enjoy that I think… if I can dance of course." Smirking, Alex pulled from the embrace.

Veronica smiled at him and nodded "Good night, Sir Alex." she stepped back and curtsied, bringing a smile to his lips.

Removing his hat and setting it over his heart with the left hand he bowed somewhat "and a pleasant night to you, amicula."

The gesture brought a blush and giggle from her.

Alex made for his room and Veronica entered her own, both smiling. _'A good enough evening.'_ he thought. The master bedroom dark when he entered but soft light glowed once he passed the threshold. The suit he hung and set in one cabinet marked 'laundry', a shirt and shorts for bed in their place.

Sleeping in a real bed was a new experience for The Courier. Many nights he spent on the road, longer than the week since his waking in Goodsprings, and his body felt strange but in a way that was comforting. He could get used to this, too easily but, for once, he ignored what training called from the void and closed his eyes, smiling and slipped into dreams.

Among the companions that night, more than one dreamed…

* * *

><p>Wind bent long bladed grasses to the west; sand dunes became shrouded in granulated clouds. The glare of sun forced his eyes closed, hand rising against the light. His glasses were absent from his face.<p>

Stepping from the porch onto the sand he followed a winding path. It was longer now, denser, more paths had appeared to the sides and more than once the direction was uncertain. But it seemed he was still lucky as the path ended to reveal a beach. A woman in a white dress stood at the shore, hair undone and blowing in the breeze.

His heart raced and steps became pounding feet as he ran. She began to turn and the swell of her belly he could see and the stain of red on her chest.

And then the entire world caught fire. The sea boiled and turned to gas, the explosion sundered the very earth itself.

Boone awoke, sweating, shaking. After a minute his breath slowed and he lay back on the mattress. The idea of pilfering something to drink crossed his mind but was dismissed. Going onto the balcony outside the common room sounded good too, so high in the air, easy enough to just let go. That thought he also dismissed.

Choosing nothing, Boone closed his eyes once more. Maybe this time he would reach her. He could hope anyway.

* * *

><p>A sax player blew a slow tune, a drummer and acoustic guitar accompanying. Dim lights cast a shadow on the dance floor, a crowd milled around the edges; the echo of hushed conversation filled the space.<p>

One pair stood on the floor, moving slowly through the motions not because the song was slow but they were so close, and not very good at dancing either. Slow dance, no feet stepped on.

Veronica relaxed against her partner, head on shoulder and forehead to neck, arms around the neck and hands clasped together for the most intimate of public embraces.

Her partner's hands lay at her waist, very close to her butt, teasingly so and annoyingly far away from touching her. But, for now, all was beautiful, the music and lights, her partner wrapped in her arms.

No words passed between them under the lights, the holding was proof enough. Opening her eyes though, Veronica stood alone. No band, no crowd. No partner. The music played on but no one to enjoy it.

She felt cold and her heart hurt as well, so much that tears fell from her eyes. Veronica awoke, finding real tears on her face. She sniffed and sat up in bed, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her nightshirt.

The nightstand clock read seven thirty and she yawned. With sleep now improbable, Veronica got out of bed and decided to forgo changing in favor of the shirt and shorts she wore.

The only presence in the apartment was the Securitron, its face presently dark which she assumed was either asleep or power save mode. The inactivity did not settle her distrust of the machine though. Veronica scowled and turned away, towards the common room.

Outside the great window the sky was a bleak grey color, thick clouds with foreboding rain gathering. Taking a spot on the couch, Veronica pulled her legs into her chest and rested her chin on top of her knees. She knew the dream, it was an old one. She missed the people from the Brotherhood, not that those people were entirely gone but how her relationship with them had changed.

Sighing, Veronica stared out of the window, eyes in the present, mind in the past. She had many thoughts in her mind; so many that no single thought held her attention. In a way, she thought of nothing and yet all things at the same time.

On the road, thinking was occupied by practical matters, surviving, fighting raiders, shelter, food, and so on.

Having a safe place, a comfortable place, made thinking easier and dangerous.

A knock at the door called her attention. Beatrix stood on the threshold, wearing only underpants. "Mornin'." said the ghoul, entering the room and flopping down on the couch, feet up "This place is sweet, dusty and creepy as shit but sweet all the same."

Veronica nodded "It does feel odd but it's a little safer than the road." As far as places to sleep and people to be with, the odd company and old hotel were not what she first imagined herself to be in but was content enough.

Beatrix nodded "You okay?" she asked, looking at Veronica out of the corner of her eye.

Shifting where she sat Veronica shrugged "Fine enough." but her voice did not give confidence to that statement, eliciting a snort from the ghoul woman.

"Girl I know you got thoughts on yer head, heavy ones too. Living as long as I have you get a sense of a person, 'specially one young and fresh as you." she waved her hand to forestall refutes "Get as old as me, everyone is a youngster, even when their hair is gray and skin wrinkled by wind and time." Beatrix leaned back into the couch "Just two women and I can keep any private thoughts private."

Nodding, Veronica put some thoughts into order, eventually she shrugged in a resigned way "A lot of thinking, what Alex is doing, what I want to do, how to do it. Friends, before now, I don't get along with much anymore, and… my ex, I guess you could call it."

Another nod "Heavy shit." mulling things over Beatrix said "Before you lot came, I was about to leave the Followers. The Atomic Wrangler had a job opening for a whore, ghoul cowboy no less."

"Sounded to be a good deal, I could have done almost anything I wanted, as much booze I could swallow, food to eat and ass to bang." she sighed, almost wistful but tinged with laughter "And then comes these complete strangers carrying in little Matty. Thought to myself 'why not, all the benefits of the Wrangler with a good fight if I'm lucky'."

From a loose flap of skin Beatrix pulled a cigarette and lighter, stood and made for the door to the balcony "This little posse Hugh's getting' together is headed for some serious shit I think, you might learn something in the meantime." and she stepped outside.

Veronica sat for a moment and let her thoughts move in their own way, took in what Beatrix said and smiled. Maybe this would be more than learning of other places. Maybe there was something she could learn of herself. Standing she made for the kitchen, chuckling at the numerous times her disciplinarian duties had been in the bunker's mess hall, remembering an old saying _'The more things change the more they stay the same.'_

* * *

><p>The day had been long and harsh under the sun but now the great orb set beyond the mountains and the stars began to shine. His breath misted as the axe fell one last time and split the last of the wood needed for the coming month. Wiping his face, the young man smiled, pleased with the day's work.<p>

He carried the axe in one hand and the split wood under his arm, dropping both in the shed aside the house. Inside, a pleasant fire burned to stave off the chill of approaching winter. The desert did not get snow but it was cold indeed.

A man sat in an armchair, worn with age but the sturdy wood still held, his long white beard tied with several strips of cloth. A girl lay before the fire, drawing in charcoal. She drew her favorite subject, the mountains and sunset, with added scenery in the foreground for extra beauty.

The girl had long fingers, dark hair, and despite her youth the piece she crafted was nothing short of picturesque, the very mountains surrounding the home captured and miniaturized onto the paper.

The man nodded at his entrance and poured a cup, handing it to the young man who drank of the dark amber liquid, filling his body with warmth. He kneeled beside the girl who did not turn from her work, lay down next to her so he could watch. To acknowledge his presence, she leaned and bumped his shoulder. He smiled and leaned into her.

The girl finished her drawing and stood, holding it out to the old man who smiled lovingly as he inspected the piece. Standing on his old knees, weathered by time but strong from life and its harsh nature, the man set the picture into a carved frame, nailed the back together with the front and set it on the wall where several more pieces hung, more than could be counted in the haze of the dream world.

Alex awoke; his dream… not unpleasant but filled with a melancholy which he could not place nor hope to understand with the void holding back his secrets. Sighing, he sat up and read the time of seven thirty in the morning.

Divesting himself of the bedclothes he stood, dressed in night pants and shirt, and exited the room to the smell of cooking. The smell was ambrosia of flavor that set his mouth to water. Following the calling of nose and stomach he found Veronica with three large fry pans on the stove. She turned and smiled at him.

"Good morning." she said, turning back to the food.

Amazed, Alex said "This is a welcome surprise." he smelled the air and groaned "A fighter and a cook, the Brotherhood trains it's people well I see." standing to one side he looked at the food admiringly.

Veronica smiled "More that I was a loud mouth and got mess duties more times than I can count and if you're going to be in here make yourself useful." she indicated a pile of vegetables to her right.

Wide-eyed, amazed, Alex stared at the fresh produce "Where…" he began.

"Found 'em here" she shrugged "I guess providing all of our necessities extends to food as well. Where it comes from I've no idea but they're fresh and no radiation."

Nodding, Alex took a knife and began to cut and a moment later Veronica pulled the blade away.

"If you cut that way there won't be enough, here." she returned the knife and directed his hand with her own, cutting thinly of the vegetables "Nice and slow, that's it." taking her hand away Veronica watched with a hawk's eye to insure the proper cuts. Nodding, she returned to the stove.

They worked together for fifteen minutes in silence, the only words exchanged coming from Veronica to Alex, mostly to pass over some ingredient. She was so focused on her work, in her own world, the courier beside her ceased to exist only that the vegetables appeared in her hands and into one of the pans to join the other two.

Smells of meat and roasting vegetable filled the apartment and drew the attentions of its occupants.

Arcade entered, tousle haired and puffy eyed, with a grunt as a morning greeting and sat at the table, face in hands.

Beatrix entered and nodded at the man and woman at work "Got the boss man around yer little finger huh?" and Veronica laughed.

Boone was last to enter, the sniper already dressed in khakis and white shirt, beret set firmly but his sunglasses hung from the shirt collar.

At last, Veronica directed Alex to serve the first of the fry pans, which held several fried eggs.

The courier dished these to his companions and returned for the second pan, this one of meat cut thin, juices sloshing back and forth. Atop the eggs these went and some of the juice spooned on top, finally the vegetables to complete the affair.

The group sat but not all were present. ED–E floated and bobbed up and down. The simple greeting of "Good morning." scrolled across the PIP-Boy screen. The robot settled on the counter and activated its radio.

"Goooodd Morning New Vegas and welcome to the morning edition of New Vegas Radio. Gotta lotta news for ya today, good news in fact. Seems the town of Primm has a new sheriff and he's layin' down the law hard on all the neer-do-wells. Our reporters were on site to catch a few words"

The voice of New Vegas switched to that of Sheriff Meyers "Howdy folks I'm Bob Meyers. I was made sheriff of this town because someone thought I was the best choice. Maybe that's true, I don't know. I've made mistakes and I paid for them but now here's a second chance. I'll make the best of it, for myself and all the people countin' on me. I'll do my best and, almighty willing, I'll make this town a good place, a safe place."

The voice switched again "We've also got reports of the town of Nipton having been burned to the ground not a week ago, a few travelers claiming Legion responsibility but survivors of the massacre said they were saved by an angel of justice, toting an armory on his back and a feather festooned hat. If you see this wanderer give 'em a pat on the back and ask him to your hearth. It's the least we can do."

The news report went in to incoming weather for the region but Alex barely heard it. His face burned red and he set down the fork he held, hiding himself from the others, their eyes he could feel on him. Sighing, hands fell away and the courier caught the eyes of each man and woman around the table "I just did what I thought was right, nothing more. Luck and skill…" a whir from ED-E "… and our metal friend, made up the difference. Nothing more." he groused.

Face down to his food, Alex ignored the others. He finished eating before the others and stood, cleaned his plate and set it in the drying rack "Thank you miss Veronica, this was a welcome gesture." he said stiffly and made for his room.

A quick shower and he was about to get dressed when he saw the image in the mirror. Alex examined his reflection, wondering. The length of his torso, down his legs, were creased with scars of many shapes and sizes, underneath, with every movement, rippled muscles only attained after years of conditioning, hard labor and many, many harsh experiences. Whatever his past was, it was violent.

The image of his face caught his attention next. It was rough, hardened by elements, nearly gaunt. But also handsome, high cheek bones and dark eyes, dark brown hair atop his head and his face. Touching it, the rough texture intrigued him. From the sensations, Alex knew he never grew a beard before. He rather admired the look. Though it was… thick and scraggly. Opening the cabinet he found razor and soap.

Lathered, applied, and steel to skin, hair fell in clumps. The tug of hair felt unpleasant but liberating at the same time and so Alex ignored the tugging in favor of seeing his skin revealed beneath the blade. When finished, the hair was cut in a straight line following his jaw. Smirking at his appearance, with a final nod, he dressed for the meeting with Mr. House.

* * *

><p>Lucky 38 Casino Hotel, Penthouse<p>

0900 hrs

Standing before the great screen which served as Mr. House's face, Alex stood back straight and hands behind back. His hair was slicked back, away from his forehead and passed his ears, jaw outlined by facial hair combed and slicked down by the same solution. The suit he wore was a dark gray affair, white shirt and dark blue tie, wool slacks and polished shoes. The outfit itched, skin unaccustomed to such finery but it was expected, in the presence of the de facto ruler of New Vegas.

The screen remained blank and Alex remained standing, waiting. His foot itched but he ignored it, thinking any movement on his part before House spoke would be judged. Breathing in a steady rhythm, partly to calm thoughts racing in his mind and to distract himself from the itching foot.

It seemed House played out this waiting, either for his own amusement or some test for Alex.

Both seemed probably, and at the moment believable as the clock behind him ticked away, passed the hour mark and onto the first minute. Whatever the computer man had planned, the courier would have to play him out.

At least, that was the idea; the reality of the situation though was quite different, after the mistake last night. Benny, so close and still he slipped away. Why had Alex let the bastard get into that elevator, alone? Why believe his surrender when such an obvious escape route existed?

Why… had he let the event happen?

Breathing still to calm thoughts and nerves, the thoughts began to race. It was so painfully obvious, in hindsight, Benny had been playing him all along, and said whatever the courier had wanted to hear and the lies had been believed without hesitation.

'_A fool's belief', _Alex thought_ 'Never let your enemy gain quarter after it is taken, for he will take you unaware, and the trap sprung will fall upon your head.'_ The thought roiled in his mind, berating the course of choices made, words spoken and returned. The snake in the grass had bitten back, its venom seeping through his veins and killing slowly.

The screen brightened and Alex stood as straight as before, the inner turmoil hidden beneath the mask of professionalism.

Mr. House wandered on-screen, wiping his mouth and hands, setting the cloth onto a servant's tray that quickly bowed and backed away. The immaculately dressed, digitized, man sat in his armchair, the same he'd been in when Alex had first met him. Wherever, or whatever, the image was located it seemed the library was the preferred conference room.

The library certainly alluded to an aristocratic lifestyle, high shelves set into the walls, a hearth of marble standing behind the chair and a table, from what Alex could see, carved from a single piece of dark wood. The chair itself, plush and bright under an unseen light, also carved from wood and cushioned in thick material to support a man in comfort.

"I have several assignments for you to undertake." said House, cutting straight to business.

Alex nodded "What would you have me do, sir." the statement, though sounding close to a question, meant to infer loyalty of an employer and employee. Beyond the honorific he said nothing, keeping the meeting simple and practical, something he assumed House would appreciate.

And he did, if the small smirk on the digitized face inferred such "As you may have noticed in your time beyond my walls, New Vegas and the Mojave are under siege. Not by weapons of war though, at least not yet. But politically, culturally, economically and in the worst case militarily, our hold is fragile."

A map of the world appeared and narrowed to the continent and finally the old state of Nevada "Caesars Legion presses from the South, their methods brutal and devastating. Negotiation with that group will be nigh on impossible unless there is something we can offer, what that is I will disclose later." An arrow appeared from the South, the image of the bull surrounded in red which made Alex grimace, from what he did not know exactly.

"The New California Republic presses from the West. They have the strongest military, the best technological resources from the Old World, second only to The Brotherhood of Steel." the name tinged House's tone of voice with malice "Politically and culturally the NCR would most appeal to the Mojave, with promises of freedom and such nonsense they espouse, and then impress taxes against the people for that protection." another arrow appeared, this one white and showed the two-headed bear.

"And between them, the Mojave, New Vegas, and the entirety of the old state of Nevada." and a blue light shown the old state, with an emblem in the center "If either side acquire the territory, they will have access to resources which will tip the balance and one will become supreme. The other will die." the finality in House's voice impressed upon Alex the severity of the assessment.

Alex nodded, taking in the information. Unbeknownst to the courier, the PIP-Boy transcribed and recorded the information, downloaded the maps and pertinent files to its harddrive.

The image of House reappeared, grim and stiff "I want you to garner favor with as many groups as possible, preferably with the Legion or NCR but there also exist smaller tribes within the region which can be of significant aid to the cause. New Vegas must remain independent. No allies exist to the East, the roaming tribes cannot be negotiated with and venturing for their aid is a waste of time and energy better spent on the groups here."

A grim, certain nod followed the end of House's report "It will be done and I shall insure the allegiance of what groups that can be negotiated with. Others will be removed."

House smirked in a satisfied manner "As you venture out I shall spread news of your deeds and skills here in the city, and I shall name you my executor. When you return at your leisure, they will be waiting to meet with you, to covet your approval and mine by extension."

"Yes, sir." Alex snapped and almost turned when House stated one last part.

"I have an assignment for you. Travel to Quarry Junction, north of Goodsprings, and clear out the nested Deathclaws therein. I will assign a patrol of Securitrons to you at your disposal. As my executor, your orders are my orders and your actions shall be a projection of my will in the Mojave. Good day, Mister Hugh."

And the screen blanked.

_Author's Note_

_A lot more filler and character development than I had initially thought, the story took on a life of it's own but I think is important enough for a chapter. Particularly with Beatrix Russell as a companion. Initially, I had thought she would be a chain smoking and drinking badass with an attitude and crackshot with a rifle. As I wrote this, thought of the characters, Beat became more than I had created in the first place. She, just as the other canon members, will have her own story to tell and her own pain to overcome._

_The long delay is due… to Life (shrug) it is what it is. I do plan to continue this work, I have no intention of stopping anytime soon. For many years, probably, might be writing fiction well into my later life. But From The Night shall continue with all intent of completion._

_Latin work, thanks to Gufetto_

_Editor, thanks to Bubbajack_

_You two are awesome (three-way high five)_

_Vale,_

_Tutor Veritatis_


End file.
